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-0 

PKEFACE 



The following pages contain the substance of the Lectriref 
which, for several years, have been delivered to the classes in 
Intellectual Philosophy, in Brown University. 

Having been intended for oral delivery, they were, in many 
respects, modified by the circumstances of their origin. Hence, 
illustrations have been introduced more freely than would other- 
wise have seemed necessary. In preparing them for the press, 
however, I was led to consider the class of persons for whose 
use they were principally designed. I remembered the diffi- 
culty of fixing definitely in the mind of the pupil the nature 
and limits of subjective truth ; and therefore allowed my instruc- 
tions to retain in general the form which they had previously 
assumed. Whether I have in this respect judged wisely, it is 
not for me to determine. 

I have not entered upon the discussion of many of the topics 
which have called into exercise the acumen of the ablest meta- 
physicians. Intended to serve the purposes of a text-book, it 
was necessary that the volume should be compressed within a 
compass adapted to the time usually allotted to the study of 
this science in the colleges of our country. I have, therefore, 
attempted to present and illustrate the important truths in intel- 
lectual philosophy, rather than the inferences which may bo 
drawn from them, or the doctrines which they may presuppose. 
These may be pursued to any length, at the option of the teacher. 
If I have not entered upon these discussions, I hope that I have 
prepared the way for their more ample and truthful develop- 
ment. 



IV PREFACE. 

It has been my desire to render this work an aid to mental 
improvement. For this purpose, I have added practical sug- 
gestions on the cultivation of the several faculties. Earnest- 
minded young men frequently err in their attempts at self-im- 
provement. It has seemed to me, therefore, that a work of this 
kind would be manifestly imperfect, did it not, directly as well 
us indirectly, aid the student in his efforts to discipline ami 
strengthen his intellectual energies. 

In order to encourage more extensive reading upon the sub- 
ject than can be furnished in a text-book, I have added refer- 
ences to a number of works of easy access, specifying the places 
in which the topics treated of were discussed. In this labor, I 
have availed myself of the assistance of my former pupils, Mr. 
Samuel Brooks, now instructor in Greek, in this University, 
and Mr. Lucius W. Bancroft, of Worcester, Mass. To these 
gentlemen the student is indebted for whatever benefit he may 
derive from this feature of the work. 

For the many imperfections of this volume, the author con- 
soles himself with the reflection, that it has been written and 
prepared for the press under the pressure of other important 
and frequently distracting avocations. In the humble hop* 
that it may, nevertheless, facilitate the study of this interest- 
ing department of human knowledge, i* ie with difndenoat 
submitted to the judgment of the public 

Brown University, Sept 14, 1854. 



PREFACE TO THE PRESENT EDITION. 



It was ray design, soon after this volume was published, 
to subject it to a thorough revision, and make such cor- 
rections in the text as were evidently needed. I found 
myself, however, unable at the time to accomplish my 
intention, in consequence of several other unexpected and 
imperative obligations ; and, subsequently, by reason of a 
long period of imperfect health. I have devoted to this 
work the first leisure that I have been able to command ; 
and have corrected the text with all the attention in my 
power. I hope that I have improved it. 

In this labor I have been greatly assisted by the aid of 
another. Some time since, I received from an anonymous 
friend a copious list of valuable corrections, of which I 
have freely availed myself. I take this method of express- 
ing my sincere gratitude to my unknown benefactor ; and 
I beg him to receive my thanks for his careful reading of 
the text, and for his many valuable suggestions. Most 
of these I have thankfully adopted. 

F. WAYLAND. 

raoviDENCE, R L, May 1865. 



CONTENTS 



MM 

DJTEOPUCTION AND DEFINITIONS, ........... * 

CHAPTER I. 

THE PERCEPTIVE FACULTIES. 

Section I. — Of our Knowledge of Matter and Mind, ■ 16 

Section II. — The Perceptive Powers in general, 28 

Section HI. — Of our Mode of Intercourse with the External Woi Id, . 32 

Section IV. — The Sense of Smell, 41 

Section V. — The Sense of Taste, 46 

Section VT. — The Sense of Hearing, 60 

Section VII. — The Sense of Touch 59 

Section VIII. - The Sense of Sight 63 

Section IX. — Acquired Perceptions, 77 

Section X. — The Nature of the Knowledge which we acquire by the 

Perceptive Powers, 86 

Section XL — Conception, 108 

CHAPTER II. 

CONSCIOUSNESS, ATTENTION AND REFLECTION. 

Section I. — Consciousness, 110 

Section II. — Attention and Reflection, •• 119 

CHAPTER III. 

ORIGINAL SUGGESTION, OR THE INTUITIONS OF THE INTELLECT. 

Section I. — The Opinions of Locke, 130 

Section IL — The Nature of Original Suggestion, 186 

Section III. — Ideas occasioned by Objects in a State of Rest, . . . 142 
Section IV. — Suggested Ideas occasioned by Objects in the Condi- 
tion of Change, 150 

Section V. — Suggested Ideas accompanied by Emotion 168 



Tin CONTENTS. 

CHAPTER IV. 

tut 

ABSTRACTION, ........ 177 

CHAPTER V. 

MEMORY. 

Section 1. — Association of Ideas •••••• .202 

Section II. — The Nature of Memory, , 223 

Section III. — The Importance of Memory, ,. 246 

Section IV. — The ftnprovement of Memory, 264 

CHAPTER VI. 

REASONING. 

Section I. — The Nature and Object of Reasoning, and the Manner 

in which it proceeds, 279 

Section n. — The different Kinds of Certainty at which we arrive 

by Reasoning, 307 

Section HI. — Of the Evidence of Testimony, 317 

Section IV. — Other Forms of Reasoning, . 333 

Section V. — The Improvement of the Reasoning Powers, ..... 34L 

CHAPTER VII. 

IMAGINATION. 

Section I. — Nature of the Imagination, 851 

Section II. — Potfltic Imagination, 357 

Section III. — On the Improvement of Poetic Imagination 370 

Section IV. — Philosophical Imagination, ... , • . . . 377 

CHAPTER VIII. 

TASTE. 

Section I.— The Nature of Taste, 38 1 : 

Section II. — Taste considered Objectively. Material Qualities as 

Objects of Taste, 892 

Beotion HI. — Immaterial Qualities as Objects of Taste, 408 

Section IV. — The Emotion of Taate ; or Taste considered Subjec- 
tively, 40S 

APPENDIX. 

Note to pa^ ivl, 102 421 

Note to page 115, . . 421 



INTRODUCTION. 

DEFINITION OF THE INTELLECTUAL POWERS 

Intellectual Philosophy treats of the faculties of the 
human mind, and of the laws by which they are governed. 

The only forms of existence which, in our present state 
we are capable of knowing, are matter and mind. It is the 
mind alone that knows. When, therefore, we cognize 
matter, the olject known, and the subject which knows, are 
numerically distinct. When, on the other hand, we cog- 
nize mind, the mind which knows and the mind which is 
known are numerically the same. The mind knows, and 
the mind is the object of knowledge. 

1. The mind becomes cognizant of the existence and qual- 
ities of matter, that is, of the world external to itself, by 
means of the Perceptive faculties. It knows not what 
matter is, or what is the essence of matter, but only its 
qualities ; that is, its power of affecting us in this or that 
manner. When we say, " This is gold," we do not pretend 
to know what the essence of gold is, but merely that there 
is something possessed of certain qualities, or powers of cre- 
ating in us certain affections. 

2. In a similar manner we become acquainted with the 
energies of our own mind. We are not cognizant of the 
mind itself, but only of tie action of its faculties or sensi- 
bilities. When we th'ik, remember, or reason; when we 



10 INTRODUCTION. 

are joyful Oi iad, when we deliberate or resc ve, we know 
that these se\ *ral states )f the mind exist, and that they are 
predicated of the being whom I denominate I, or myself. 
The power by which we become cognizant to ourselves of 
these mental states is called Consciousness. When, by an 
act of volition, a particular mental state is made the object 
of distinct and continuous thought, the act is denominated 
Reflection. 

3. An idea of perception or of consciousness terminates aa 
soon as another idea succeeds it. It is perfect and complete 
within itself, and is not necessarily connected with anything 
else. I see a ball either at rest or in motion ; I turn my 
eyes in another direction and perceive a tree or a house ; in 
a moment afterwards they are both violently thrown down. 
I am conscious of several separate perceptions, which follow 
each other in succession. Each one of these mental acts ia 
complete within itself, and might have been connected with 
no other. We find, however, that these ideas of perception 
are not thus disconnected. They do not terminate in them- 
selves, but give occasion to other ideas of great importance j 
ideas which, but for the acts of perception, could never have 
existed. Thus, we saw a house standing, we now see it 
fallen ; there at once arises in the mind the idea of a cause, 
or of something which has occasioned this change. Several 
ideas following in succession, occasion the idea of duration. 
The existence of these secondary ideas under these circum- 
Btances is owing to the constitution of the human mind 
itself. It suggests to us these ideas, which, when once con- 
ceived, are original and independent. This power of the 
mind is termed Original Suggestion. 

4. The knowledge acquired both by our perceptive facul- 
ties and by consciousness, as well as much that is given ua 
by original suggestion, is the knowledge of things or acta 
as individuals. We perceive single objects ; we are con 



DEFINITION OF THE INTELLECTUAL POWERS. II 

scious of single mental states. These pass away and become 
recollections. The recollections are like their originals, 
merely recollections of individuals. Had we no other 
power, our knowledge would consist of separate isolated 
ideas, without either cohesion or classification. Our knowl- 
edge would be all either of single individuals, or of single 
acts performed by particular agents. When, however, we 
reflect upon our knowledge, we find it to be of a totally 
different character. It is almost all of classes. With the 
exception of proper names, all the nouns of a language des- 
ignate classes ; that is, ideas of genera and species, and not 
ideas of individuals. There must, therefore, exist a power 
of the mind by which we transform these ideas of individuals 
into ideas of generals. We give to this complex power the 
name of Abstraction. 

5. We have thus far considered the intellectual faculties 
without reference to the element of time. We, however, all 
know that the ideas obtained in the past remain with us at 
this present. The history of our lives from infancy is con- 
tinually before us, or, at the command of the will, it may be 
spread out before our consciousness. We know that the 
ideas which we now acquire may be retained forever. Nay, 
more, we are conscious of a power of recalling at will the 
knowledge which we have once made our own. The faculty 
by which we do this is ealled Memory. 

6. Possessed of these powers, we might obtain all the 
ideas arising from perception, consciousness and original 
suggestion ; we might modify them into genera and species, 
we might treasure them up in our memory and recall 
them at will. But we could proceed no further. Our 
knowledge would consist wholly of facts, or the informa- 
tion which we have derived either from our own observa- 
tion or the observation of others. But this manifestly is 
uot our condition. We are able to make use if the knowl- 



12 INTRODUCTION. 

edge acquired b/ the powers of which I have spoken, in 
such a manner as to arrive at truth before unknown, truth 
which these powers could never have revealed to us. In 
this manner we make use of the facts in geology in order to 
determine the changes which have taken place in the history 
of our globe. Thus, from the axioms and definitions of 
geometry, we proceed to demonstrate the profoundest truths 
of that science. The faculty by which we thus proceed in 
the investigation of truth is termed Reason. 

7. Thus far we have treated of those powers which give 
us knowledge of things and relations actually existing, 01 
which modify and use this knowledge. Were we limited to 
these, we could consider no conception but as actually true. 
We could conceive of nothing except that which we had 
perceived, or which some one had perceived for us. But we 
find ourselves endowed with a power of taking the elements 
of our knowledge and combining them together at will. Wo 
thus form to ourselves pictures of things that never existed, 
and we give to them form and substance by the various 
processes of the fine arts. It was this power which con- 
ceived the group of Laocoon, or Milton's Garden of Eden. 
We give to this power the name of Imagination. 

8. The exercise of all our faculties is generally agreeable, 
and sometimes is productive of exquisite pleasure. I look at 
a rainbow, I pursue a demonstration, I behold a successful 
effort in the fine arts, and in all these cases I am conscious 
of a peculiar emotion. The causes producing this emotion 
are unlike, but the. mental feeling produced is essentially 
the same. Every one recognizes it under the name of the 
beautiful ; and the sensibility by which we become capable 
of this emotion is called Taste. 

The faculties which will be treated of in the present work 
may, then, be briefly defined as follows : 

1. The Perceptive faculties are those by which we "lecoma 



DEFINITIC/N OF THE INTELLECTUAL POWERS. 13 

acquainted with the existence and [ualities of the external 
world. 

2. Consciousness is the faculty by which we become 
cognizant of the operations of our own minds. 

3. Original Suggestion is the faculty which gives rise 
to original ideas, occasioned by the perceptive faculties or 
consciousness. 

4. Abstraction is the faculty by which, from conceptiona 
of individuals, we form conceptions of genera and species, or, 
in general, of classes. 

5. Memory is the faculty by which we retain and recall 
sur knowledge of the past. 

6. Reason is that faculty by which, from the use of the 
knowledge obtained by the other faculties, we are enabled to 
proceed to other and original knowledge. 

7.. Imagination is that faculty by which, from materials 
already existing in the mind, we form complicated concep- 
tions or mental images, according to our own will. 

8. Taste is that sensibility by which we recognize the 
beauties and deformities of nature or art, deriving pleasure 
from the one. and suffering pain from the other. 

It is by no means intended to assert that these are all the 
powers of a human soul. Besides these, it is endowed with 
conscience, or that faculty by which we are capable of 
moral obligation ; with will, or that motive force by which 
we are impelled to action ; with the various emotions, in- 
stincts and biases, which, as observation teaches us, are 
parts of a human soul. These are, however, the. most im- 
portant of those that are purely intellectual. In the follow- 
ing pages we shall consider them in the order in which they 
b*vo been named. 

2 



14 INTRODUCTION. 

- REFERENCES 

TO PASSAGES 13 WHICH ANALOGOUS SUBJECTS ARE TREATED. 

Importance of Intellectual Philosophy — Reid's Inquiry, chap. 1, sec. 1 

Difficulty of the study — Reid's Inquiry, chap. 1, sec. 2. 

Cultivation of mind distinguishes us from brutes — Inquiry, chap. 1, 
pec. 2. 

What are matter and mind — Reid's Introduction to Essays on the In • 
tellectual Powers. 

Matter and mind relative — Stewart's Introduction to vol. I. ; Reid' 
Essays on certain powers, Essay 1, chap. 1. 

Origin of our knowledge — Locke, Book 2d, chap. 1, sec. 2—5 and 24. 



.v 




CHAPTER I. 

rHE PERCEPTIVE FACULTIES 



BEC1I0N I. — OF OUR KNOWLEDGE OF MATTER AND MIHi#. 
THERE IS NO REASON FOR SUPPOSING THE ESSENCE 01 
MATTER AND MIND THE SAME. THE RELATION OF MIND 
TO MATTER IN OUR PRESENT STATE. 

Of the essence of mind, as I have remarked, we know 
nothing. All that we are able to affirm of it is, that it ia 
something which perceives, reflects, remembers, believes, 
imagines, and wills ; but what that something is, which ex 
erts these energies, we know not. It is only as we are con- 
scious of the action of these energies that we are conscious 
of the existence of mind. It is only by the exertion of its 
own powers that the mind becomes cognizant of their exis- 
tence. The cognizance of its powers, however, gives us no 
knowledge of that essence of which they are predicated. 

In these respects, our knowledge of mind is precisely 
analogous to our knowledge of matter. When we attempt to 
define matter, we affirm that it is something extended, divis- 
ible, solid, colored, etc. ; that is, we mention those of ita 
qualities which are cognizable by our sensed. In other 
W)rds, we affirm that it is something which has the power 
of affecting us in this or that manner. When, however, the 
question is asked, what is this something of which these 
qualities are predicated, we are silent. The knowledge of 
the qualities gives no knowledge of the essence to which 



16 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 

they belong. We cognize the qualities by means of our 
perceptive powers ; but we have no power by which we are 
able to cognize essence, or absolute substance. 

This does not seem to be the fact by accident, but from 
necessity. If we reflect upon the nature of our faculties, 
we shall readily be convinced that, by our perceptive pow- 
ers, we learn that a particular object affects us in a particu- 
lar manner, creates in us a certain state of mind, or, m 
other words, gives us a certain form of knowledge. I look 
upon snow, and there is created in my mind the idea of 
white. I look upon gold, I have at once the idea of yellow. 
Besides this, there is another idea created, which is, that 
this quality, or power of creating in me this notion, belongs 
to the object which I contemplate. I thus not only gain 
the idea of white or yellow, but the additional conviction 
that snow is white and gold is yellow. 

The same remarks apply to our knowledge of mind. I 
am conscious of perception, of recollection, of pleasure, or 
pain. I thus acquire a notion of these several mental acts, 
and thus a certain form of knowledge is given to me. Be- 
sides this, I have an instinctive belief that the mental en- 
ergy which gives rise to this particular form of knowledge 
is predicated of the thinking being whom I call I, or myself. 
If the knowledge which we derive from perception and con- 
sciousness be analyzed, I think it will be found to go thus 
far, but that, from the constitution of our nature, it can go 
no farther. 

But, while our knowledge of mind and our knowledge of 
matter agree in this respect, that neither of them gives us 
any information concerning essences, these two forms of 
knowledge are in other respects quite dissimilar. 

1. In the first place, it is obvious that the energies of the 
ane and the qualities of the other are made known to us by 
different powers of the mind. The qualities of matter are 



THE PERCEPTIVE FACULTIES. 17 

revealed to us by our perceptive faculties, in which out 
spiritual and material natures are intimately united. The 
energies of mind are revealed to us by consciousness, one of 
the elements exclusively of our spiritual nature. It is 
almost needless to remark, here, that this difference in the 
mode in which these forms of knowledge are revealed to us 
does not affect the evidence of the truth of either. Percep- 
tion and consciousness are both original and legitimate 
sources of belief. We cannot philosophically deny the ex- 
istence of either. The world without us and the world 
within us, the me and the not me, are both given to us by 
the principles of our constitution as ultimate facts, which, 
whatever may be his theory, every man, from the necessity 
of his constitution, practically admits. 

2. We always express the attributes of matter and the 
energies of mind by terms generically dissimilar. Tha 
qualities of matter we designate by adjectives, or terms 
meaning something added to a substance, and wholly inca- 
pable of an active signification. Thus, we say of a ma- 
terial object, it is hard, soft, white, black, warm or cold. 
On the other hand, we designate the energies of mind by 
active verbs or participles, terms which indicate a power 
residing in the substance itself. We say of mind, it thinks 
remembers, wills, imagines ; or, that it is a thinking, will- 
ing, remembering, imagining substance. This difference 
in our mode of speech. is not accidental, but of necessity. If 
any one will make the experiment, he will find it impossible 
to express his conceptions on these subjects in any other 
manner. We are unable to conceive of thinking, reasoning, 
remembering, as qualities, or of white, black, or color, as ener- 
gies. We are so made that we are obliged to think of these 
different attributes as at the farthest remove from each 
Ither. 

From these remarks we discover the limit which has be*\i; 
2* 



18 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPE , 

fixel by our Creator to our investigations on these subjects 
We perceive in the objects around us various qualities, and 
we know that these qualities must be predicated of some- 
thing, — for nothing, or that which does not exist, can have 
no qualities, — but what that something is we know not. Sc . 
again, we are conscious of the energies of mind, and we 
know that these energies must be energies of something, 
while of the essence of that something we are equally igno- 
rant. Hence, in all our investigations respecting either 
matter or mind, we must abandon at the outset all inquiries 
respecting essences or absolute substance, and confine our- 
selves to the observation of phenomena, their relations to 
each other, and the laws to which they are subjected. The 
progress of physical science within the last two centuries 
has been greatly accelerated by the practical acknowledg- 
ment of this law of investigation. Intellectual science can 
advance in no other direction. 

If, then, it be affirmed that the soul or the thinking prin- 
ciple in man is material, or that its essence is the same as the 
essence of matter, we answer : 

First, that the assertion is unphilosophical, inasmuch as 
it transgresses the limits which the Creator has fixed to 
human inquiry. We have been endowed with no powers for 
cognizing the essence of anything, and therefore we pass 
beyond our legitimate province in affirming anything on the 
subject. We can neither prove nor disprove it. We may 
show that no evidence can be adduced in favor of it ; that all 
the analogies bearing on the subject would lead to a different 
conclusion ; and thus we may form the basis of an opinion 
merely, but we can go no further. The nature of the case 
excludes all positive knowledge. 

Secondly, we reply that the assertion is nugatory. It ia 
affirmed that the essence of the soul is the same as the 
essence of matter. But what ia the essence of matter 1 We 



THE PERCEPTIVE FACULTIES. 19 

are obliged to confess that we do not know. When, there- 
fore, we assert that the essence of the soul is the same as 
the essence of matter, we merely assert that it is the same as 
something of which, by confession, we know absolutely noth- 
ing. Were this assertion granted, it would then add nothing 
whatever to the sum of human knowledge. Would it not be 
better frankly to confess our ignorance on the subject ? 

Thirdly, so far as the grounds for an opinion exist, they 
favor precisely the opposite opinion. 

The qualities of matter and the energies of mind are aa 
widely as possible different from each other. In all lan- 
guages they are designated by different classes of words 
We recognize them by different powers of the mind, powers 
which cannot be used interchangeably. Our senses cannot 
recognize the thoughts of the mind, nor can consciousness 
recognize the qualities of matter. To assert, then, that the 
essence of mind and of matter is the same, is to assert, with- 
out the possibility of proof, that two things are the same, 
which not only have no attribute in common, but of which 
the attributes are as unlike as we are able to conceive. 

It may not be out of place to enumerate the several men- 
tal states consequent upon the enunciation of any given 
proposition. In the first place, the assertion is made with- 
out any evidence either in favor of or against it. In this 
case (supposing the veracity of the assertor not to be taken 
into view) my mind remains precisely as it was before. 
The assertion goes for nothing. I have no opinion either 
the one way or the other. I neither believe nor disbelieve, 
nor have any tendency in either direction. In the second 
case the assertion is made, and though sufficient proof is not 
presented to create belief, yet considerations, as, for instance, 
analogies, are shown to exist, which create a probability 
either in favor of or against the thing asserted. Here, 
then, is ground for an opinion, and the state of mind ii 



20 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 

changed. We neither believe nor disbelieve, but we hold 
an opinion either in favor of, or contrary to the assertion. 
In the third case, the assertion is sustained either by syllo- 
gistic reasoning, or by testimony conformed to the laws 
of evidence. Here a different state of mind is produced. 
I believe it. I rely upon it as I would upon a matter which 
came within the cognizance of my own perception or con- 
sciousness. To illustrate these cases. A man asserts that 
the moon is a mass of silver. His assertion leaves my 
mind where it was before. I know nothing about it. 
Another man asserts that the planet Jupiter is or is not 
inhabited. He cannot prove it, but he presents various 
analogical facts in harmony with this assertion. I form 
an opinion on the subject. In the third case, a man asserts 
that the sun is so many millions of miles from the earth, 
and he proves, by testimony, that the observations forming 
the data were made, and he explains the mathematical rea- 
soning by which this result is obtained. I believe it, and 
in my mind it takes its place with other established facts. 
Any one, who will reflect upon the evidence presented in 
favor of the materiality of the mind, can easily determine 
which of these mental states it is entitled to produce. 

But it has been sometimes said that the brain itself is the 
mind, and that thought is one of its functions. The reason 
given for this belief is, that diseases of the brain and nerves 
afFect the condition of the mind ; that the mind declines as 
they become debilitated by age, and that the mind becomes 
deranged when the brain suffers from disease. 

To this I would reply, that, so far as I have observed, 
the facts are hardly stated with accuracy when this course 
of argument is adopted, and a large class of facts bearing 
in an opposite direction is too frequently left out of view. 

But, granting the facts, they do not justify the conclu- 
eion that is drawn from them. Suppose the brain to be 



THE PERCEPTIVE FACULTIES. 21 

l,ne instrument which the mind uses in its intercourse with 
the external world, — as, for instance, suppose the brain 
to secrete the medium by which the mind derives impres- 
sions from without, and sends forth volitions from within, — 
any derangement of this organ would, by necessity, create 
derangement in the forms of mental manifestation connected 
with that derangement. Disease of the nerves may create 
false impressions, or may lead to acts at variance with the 
spiritual volitions. As the facts may be thus accounted for 
on the supposition that the brain is an organ used by the 
mind, as well as on the supposition that the brain is itself 
the organ of thought, they leave the question precisely 
where they found it. 

If, then, it be asked, what is the relation which the mind 
holds to the material body? our answer would be as follows : 
The mind seems to be a spiritual essence, endowed with a 
variety of capacities, and connected with the body by the 
principle of life. These capacities are first called into 
exercise by the organs of sense. So far as I can discover, 
if a mind existed in a body incapable of receiving any im- 
pression from without, it would never think, and would, of 
course, be unconscious of its own existence. As soon, 
however, as it has been once awakened to action by impres- 
sions from without, all its various faculties in succession ara 
called into exercise. Consciousness, original suggestion, 
memory, abstraction, and reason, begin at once to act. 
These various powers are developed and cultivated by sub- 
sequent exercise, until this congeries of capacities, once so 
blank and negative, may at last be endowed with all the 
energies of a Newton or a Milton. 

Locke compares the mind to a sheet of blank paper; 
Professor Upham, to a stringed instrument, which is silent 
until the hand of the artist sweeps over its chords. Both 
of these illustrations convey to us truth in respect to the 



ZZ INTELLECTUAL PEILOSOPHY. 

relation existing between the mind and the mate. ml system' 
which it inhabits. The mind is possessed of no innate ideas , 
its first ideas must come from without. In this respect it 
resembles a sheet of blank paper. In its present state it 
can originate no knowledge until called into action by im- 
pressions made upon the senses. In this respect it resembles 
a stringed instrument. Here, however, the resemblance 
ceases. Were the paper capable not only of receiving the 
form of the letters written upon it, but also of combining 
them at will into a drama of Shakspeare or the epic of 
Milton ; or, were the instrument capable not only of giving 
forth a scale of notes when it was struck, but also of com- 
bining them by its own power into the Messiah of Handel, 
then would they both more nearly resemble the spiritual 
essence which we call mind. It is in the power of com- 
bining, generalizing, and reasoning, that the great differ- 
ences of intellectual character consist. All men open their 
eyes upon the same world, but all men do not look upon 
the world to the same purpose. 

REFERENCES. 

Mind first called into action by the perceptive powers — Locke, Book 2, 
chap. 1, sec. 9 ; chap. 9, sections 2 — 4, and sec. 15. 

On the proper means of knowing the operations of our own minds -- 
Reid, Essay 1, chap. 5. 

No idea of substance or essence, material or spiritual — Locke, Book 2 
ehap. 23, sections 4, 5, 16, 30. 

Energies of mind expressed by active verbs — Reid, Essay 1, chap 1. 

Explanation of terms — Ibid. 

Affirmation concerning the essence of mind un philosophical — Stewart, 
Introduction. 

As much reason to believe in the existence of spirit as of body — Locke, 
Book 2, chap. 23, secti ns 5, 15, 22, 30, 81. 



THE PERCEPTIVE FACULTIES. 28 



0BCTION II. — OF THE PERCEPTIVE POWERS IN GENERAL, 

Before entering upon the consideration of the individual 
Benses. it may be of use to offer a few suggestions respecting 
the perceptive powers in general. 1 propose to do this in 
the present section. 

1. I find myself, in my present state, in intimate con- 
nection with, what seems to me to be, an external world. I 
cannot help believing that I am in my study ; that, looking 
out of the window, I behold in one direction a thronged 
city, in another green fields, and in the distance beyond a 
range of hills. I hear the sound of bells. I walk abroad 
and am regaled with the odor of flowers. I see before me 
fruit. I taste it and am refreshed. I am warmed by the 
sun and cooled by the breeze. I find that all other men in 
a normal state are affected in the same manner. I conclude 
that to be capable of being thus affected is an attribute of 
human nature, and that the objects which thus affect me are, 
like myself, positive realities. 

I cannot, then, escape the conviction that I am a conscious 
existence, numerically distinct from every other created 
being, and that I am surrounded by material objects pos- 
sessed of the qualities which I recognize. The earth and the 
trees seem to me to exist, and I believe that they do exist. 
The grass seems to me to be green, and I believe that it is 
green. I cannot divest myself of the belief that the world 
around me actually is what I perceive it to be. I know that 
it is something absolutely distinct from the being whom I 
eall myself. I am conscious that there is a me, an ego. I 
perceive that there is a not me, a non ego. I observe that 
nil men hive the same convictions, and that in all their 



24 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY 

conversation and reasonings they take these things foi 
granted. 

2. I, however, observe that my power of cognizing the 
existence and qualities of the objects around me is limited. 
There are but five classes of external qualities which I am 
able to discover ; these are odors, tastes, sounds, tactual, 
and visible qualities. For the special purpose of cognizing 
each of these qualities I find myself endowed with a partic- 
ular organization, which is called a sense. These are the 
senses of smell, taste, hearing, touch, and sight. Each 
sense is limited to its own department of knowledge, and 
has no connection with any other. We cannot see with our 
ears, or hear with our fingers. Each sense performs its 
own function, irrespective of any other. That matter has 
no other qualities than those which we perceive, it is not 
necessary to assert ; but if it have other qualities, inas- 
much as we have no means of knowing them, we must 
be forever, in our present state, ignorant of their existence. 

This limitation, however, exists, not by necessity, but by 
the ordinance of the Creator. He might, if he had so 
pleased, have diminished the number of our senses. The 
deaf and the blind are deprived of means of knowledge 
which other men enjoy. The number of the senses in many 
of the lower animals is exceedingly restricted. We miglit 
possibly have been so constituted as to hold intercourse with 
the world around us without the intervention of the senses- 
We suppose superior beings to possess more perfect means 
of intelligence than ourselves ; but no one imagines them 
to be endowed with material senses. Our Creator might, 
probably, have increased the number of our senses, if he had 
seen fit, and we should then have enjoyed other inlets to 
Knowledge than those which we now possess. It is not im- 
probable that some of the inferior animals possess senses of 
ivhicb we are destitute. Migratory birds and fishes arj 



THE PERCEPTIVE FACJLTIES. 25 

endowed with a faculty by which, either by day or by night, 
they pursue their way, with inevitable certainty, through 
the air or the ocean. May not this power be given them by 
means of an additional sense 1 

3. When our senses are brought into relation to their 
appropriate objects, under normal conditions, a state of 
mind is created which we call by the general name of 
thought, or knowledge. If a harp is struck within a few 
feet of me. a state of mind is produced which we call hear- 
ing. So, if I open my eyes upon the external world, a 
state of mind is produced which we call seeing. This men- 
tal state is of two kinds. It is sometimes nothi/ig more than 
a simple knowledge, as when my sense of smelling is 
excited by the perfume of a rose. At other times it goes 
further than this, and we not only have a knowledge or a 
new consciousness, but also the belief that there exists some 
external object by which this knowledge is produced. 

The external conditions on which these changes depend 
are as numerous as the senses themselves. Each sense has 
probably its own media, or conditions, through which alone 
its impressions are received. We see by means of the 
medium of light. We hear by means of the vibrations of 
air. None of these media can be used interchangeably 
Each medium is appropriated to its peculiar organ. 

4. Physiologists have enabled us to trace with consider- 
able accuracy several steps of the process by which the 
intercourse between the spiritual intellect and the materia] 
world is maintained ; by which impressions on our material 
organization result in knowledge, and the volitions of the 
ioul manifest themselves in action. A brief reference to 
our organization in this respect is here indispensable. 

The nervous system in general is that part of our phys- 
ical organization by which the mind holds intercourse with 
the external world, and through which it obtains the cle- 
ft 



INTELLECTS L PHILOSOPHY. 

merits of knowledge. The nervous system is, however, of 
a two-fold character. A part of it is employed in giving 
energy to those processes by which life is sustained. These 
have their appropriate centres either in the spinal marrow, 
or in the different ganglia. Thus the heart, arteries and 
lungs, have their appropriate system of nerves, with the r 
proper centre. The digestive apparatus has its own nervous 
system. These are all parts of the general arrangement of 
brain, spinal marrow and nerves, but their functions are 
performed without volition or thought. Hence many of the 
lower animals, which have no need of thought, have no other 
nervous apparatus. The brain may be removed from some 
of the cold-blooded animals without, for a considerable pe- 
riod, producing death. In such cases sensation will pro- 
duce motion, the arterial and digestive processes will con. 
tinue for a while uninterrupted. Thus a common tortoise wil. 
live for several days after its head has been cut off Thus we 
also perform these various functions without anv interven- 
tion of the will. We digest our food, we breathe, our 
hearts pulsate, without any care of our own ; and these 
functions are performed as well when we sleep as when we 
wake, — nay, they proceed frequently for a while with entire 
regularity, when consciousness has been suspended by in- 
jury of the brain. 

As +his part of the nervous system has nothing to do with 
thought and volition, we may dismiss it from our considera- 
tion, and proceed to consider that other portion of it which 
stands in so intimate connection with the thinking prin- 
ciple. 

The organism which we use for this purpose consists of 
the brain and nerves. The part of the brain specially con- 
cerned in thought is the outer portion, called the cerebrum. 
From the brain proceed two classes of nerves, which have 
Deen appropriately termed afferent and efferent. The affe- 



THE PERCEPTIVE FACULTIES. 27 

rent nerves connect the various organs of sense with the 
brain, and thus convey to it impressions* from without. 
When an image from an external object is formed on the 
retina of the eye, a change is produced along the course of 
the optic nerve, which terminates in the brain, and the re- 
Bult is a change in the state of the mind which we call see- 
ing. When the vibrations of the air fall upon the ear, 
another change is produced on the auditory nerve which is 
continued until it reaches the brain, and the result is a 
change in the state of the mind which we ce.li hearing. The 
other, or the efferent class of nerves, proceed from the brain 
outwardly, and terminate in the muscles. By these the vo- 
litions of the mind are conveyed to our material organs, 
and the will of the mind is accomplished in action. The 
process just now mentioned is here reversed. The volition 
of the mind acts upon the brain, the change is communi- 
cated through the nerves to the muscles, and terminates in 
external action. Thus the brain is the physical centre ta 
which all impressions producing knowledge tend, and from 
which all volitions tending to action proceed. 

The proof of these truths is very simple. If the connec- 
tion betwen the organ of sense and the brain be interrupted 
by cutting, tying or injuring the nerve, perception imme- 
diately ceases. If, in the same manner, the connection be- 
tween the brain and the voluntary muscles be interrupted, 
the limbs do not obey the will. Sometimes, by disease, the 
nerves of feeling alone are paralyzed, and then, while the 
power of voluntary motion remains, the patient loses en- 
tirely the sense of touch, and will burn or scald himself 
without consciousness of injury. At other times, while the 

* I of course use the word impression here, in a general sense, to convej 
the idea of a change produce'], and not of literal impression 01 change of 
material form 



28 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 

nerves of sencation are unaffected, the nerves of volition are 
paralyzed. In this case, feeling and the other senses are un- 
impaired, but the patient loses the power of locomotion. 
Sometimes an effect of this kind is produced by the mere 
pressure upon a nerve. Sometimes, after sitting for a long 
time in one position, on attempting to rise we have found 
one of our feet "asleep." We had lost the power of mov- 
ing it, and all sensation for the time had ceased. It seemed 
more like a foreign body than a part of ourselves. Long- 
continued pressure on the nerve had interrupted the com- 
munication between the brain and the extremities of the 
nerves. As soon as this communication was reestablished, 
the limb resumed its ordinary functions.^ 

These remarks respecting the nerves apply with somewhat 
increased emphasis to the brain. If by injury to the skull 
the brain becomes compressed, all intelligent connection be- 
tween us and the external world ceases. So long as the 
cause remains unremoved, the patient in such a case con- 
tinues in a state of entire unconsciousness. The powers of 
volition and sensation are suspended. If the brain becomes 
inflamed, all mental action becomes intensely painful, the 



* Sometimes this communication is so entirely suspended that a limb in 
this state, when touched by the other parts of the body, appears like a 
foreign substance. An instance of this kind, which many years since oc- 
curred to the author himself, may serve to illustrate this subject. He 
awoke one night after a sound sleep, and was not agreeably surprised to 
find a cold hand lying heavily on his breast. He was the sole occupant 
of the room, and he knew not how any one could have entered it. It was 
eo dai k that he could perceive nothing. He, however, kept hold of the 
hand, and, as it did not move, was somewhat relieved by tracing it up 
to his own shoulder He had lain in an awkward position, so that he 
had pressed upon the nerve until all sensation had censed. Probably 
many stories of apparitions and nightly visitations may be accounted foi 
by supposing a similar cause. 



THE POCEPTIVE FACULTIES. z'J 

perceptions are false or exaggerated, and the volitions as- 
sume the violence of frenzy.* 

It may illustrate the relation which the nervous system 
sustains to the other parts of our material structure, to 
suppose the brain, nerves and organs of sense separated 
from the rest of the body, and to exist by themselves, with- 
out loss of life. In such a case, all our intellectual con- 
nections with the external world could be maintained. Wo 
could see, and hear, and feel, and taste, and smell, and re- 
member, and imagine, and reason. All that we should lose 
would be the power of voluntary motion, and the con- 
veniences which result from it. If, then, we should put 
this nervous system into connection with the bones, muscles, 
and those viscera which are necessary for their sustentation, 
we should have our present organization just as we actually 
find it. We see, then, that the other parts of our system 
are not necessary to our power of knowing, but mainly to 
our power of acting. 

5. Of sensation and perception. 

I have said that when our senses, under normal condi- 
tions, are brought into relation to the objects around us. 
the result is a state or act of the mind which we call know- 
ing. A new idea or a new knowledge is given to the mind. 
This knowledge is of two kinds. In one case it is a simple 

* Sometimes, however, astonishing lesions of the brain occur -without 
ither causing destruction of life or even any permanent injury. A case 
jras a few years since published in the daily papers, under the authority 
)f several eminent physicians, more remarkable than any with which I 
lad been previously acquainted. A man was engaged in blasting rocks 
ind as he stood over his work, and was, I think, drawing the priming 
ff'u-e, the charge exploded, and drove through his head an iron rod of some 
:wo or three feet in length. The rod came out through the top of hia 
lead, and was found covered with blood and bra : n He nevertheless 
talked home without assistance, and under ordinary medical care reoov- 
ired in a few weeks. 

3* 



knowledge, connected with no external thing. Thus, sup* 
pose that I had never yet received any impression from tha 
external world. In profound darkness a rose is brought 
near to me. I am at once conscious of a new state of mind. 
I have a knowledge, something which I can reflect upon, 
W'hich we call smell. This knowledge, however, exists solely 
in my mind. I refer it to nothing, for I know nothing to 
which I can refer it. This simplest form of knowledge ia 
called sensation. 

But there is another form of knowledge given us through 
the medium of our senses. In some cases we not only ob- 
tain a new idea, or a knowledge of a quality, but we know, 
also, that this quality is predicated of some object existing 
without us. We know that there is a not me, and that this 
is one of its attributes. Suppose, as in the other case, I 
am endowed with the sense of sight, and in daylight the 
rose is placed before me. I know that there is an ex- 
ternal object numerically distinct from myself, and that it 
is endowed with a particular form and color. This act ia 
called perception. 

These two forms of knowledge are united in the sense of 
touch, and may be clearly distinguished by a little reflec- 
tion. The illustration of Dr. Reid is as follows : " If a man 
runs his head with violence against a pillar, the attention of 
the mind is turned entirely to the painful feeling, and, to 
speak in common language, he feels nothing in the stone, 
but he feels a violent pain in his head." " When he leana 
his head gently against the pillar, he will tell you he 
feels nothing in his head, but feels hardness in the 
stone." — Reid's Inquiry, chap. 5, sec. 2. So I prick 
a person with the point of a needle ; a new knowledge ia 
created in his mind, which he denominates pain. I draw 
the needle lightly over his finger, and I ask him what it is ; 
he replies, the point of a needle. So, if I place my f rgera 



THE PERCEPTIVE FACULTIES. 61 

tightly on a table with my attention strongly directed to the 
feeling, I am conscious of a sensation. If I move my hand 
slowly over the table in order to ascertain its qualities, I am 
conscious of a perception ; that is, of a knowledge that the 
table is smooth, hard, cold, etc. The smell of a rose, the 
feeling of cold, the pain of the toothache, are sensations. 
The knowledge of hardness, of fo.' m, of a tree, or a house, 
arc perceptions. 

It has been commonly suppo ed that every perception 
was preceded by and consequent upon a sensation. Hence 
the question has frequently arisen, since the perception is 
predicated upon the sensation, and the sensation conveys to 
us no knowledge of an external world, whence is our knowl- 
edge of an external world derived ] From these data it has 
seemed difficult to answer the question satisfactorily. Dr. 
Brown has attempted to solve the difficulty by supposing 
the existence of a sixth sense, which he calls the sense of 
muscular resistance. He suggests that the pressure of the 
hand against a solid body produces a peculiar sensation in 
the muscles by which we become cognizant of the existence 
of an external world. To me this explanation is unsatisfac- 
tory. The question is, how does sensation, which is a mere 
feeling, and gives us no knowledge of the external, or the 
not me, become the cause of perception, which is a knowl- 
edge of the external '? Dr. Brown attempts to remove the 
difficulty by suggesting another sensation, which, being a 
mere sensation also, has no more necessary connection with 
the knowledge of the external than any other. 

It is my belief that the idea of externality, that is, of 
objects numerically distinct from ourselves, is given to ua 
spontaneously by the senses of touch and sight. When we 
feel a hard substance, the notion that it is something exter- 
nal to us is a part of the knowledge which at once arises in 
the mind When I look upon a tree I cannot divest my* 



32 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 

self of the instantaneous belief that the tree and myself ar6 
distinct existences, and that :'t is such as I perceive it to be. 
Unless this knowledge were thus given to us by the consti- 
tution of our minds, I know not how we should ever arrive 
at it. That this view of the subject is correct, is, I think, 
evident from what we observe of the conduct of the young 
of all animals. The lamb, or the calf, of a few hours old, 
seems by sight to have formed as distinct conceptions of ex- 
ternality, of qualities, of position, and of distance, as it ever 
obtains. We cannot suppose that its knowledge arises from 
any sense of muscular resistance, but must believe that it 
is given to it originally with the sense of sight. So an in- 
fant turns to the light, grasps after a candle, just as it doea 
after any visible object in later life. I therefore believe that 
this complex knowledge is given to us by the senses of sight 
and touch, just as the simpler knowledge is given to us by 
the senses of smell and taste. 

REPE RENCES. 

Perception in general — Reid's Inquiry, chap. 6, sec. 20. 
Process of nature in perception — Reid's Inquiry, chap. G, sec. 21. 
Mode of perception — Essays on Intellectual Powers, Essay 2, chap. 1. 
Perception limited by the senses — Essay 2, chap. 2. 
The evidence of perception to be relied on — Essay 2, chap. 5. 
Sensation and perception — Abercrorabie's Intellectual Powers, Part 2, 
Bee. 1. 



SECTION III. — OF THE MODE OF OUR INTERCOURSE WITH 
THE EXTERNAL WORLD. 

In the preceding sections we have treated of both the 
physical and spiritual facts concerned in the act of percep- 
tion. We have seen that in order to the existence of per 
ception, some change must be produced in the organ of 



THE 1-ERCEPTIVE FACULTIE3, 3b 

sense ; this must give rise to a change transmitted by the 
nerves to the brain, and the brain must be in a normal state 
in order to be affected by the change communicated by the 
nerves. If either of these conditions be violated, neither 
sensation nor perception can exist. When, however, these 
organs are all in a normal state, and its appropriate object 
is presented to an organ of sense, the result is a knowledge 
or an affection of the spiritual soul. The first part of the 
process is material — it consists of changes in matter; the last 
part is thought, an affection of the immaterial spirit. The 
question is, how can any change in matter produce thought, 
or knowledge, an affection of the spirit? Or, still more, 
how can this modification of the matter of the brain produce 
in us a knowledge of the external world, its qualities and 
relations 1 The lighting of efiiuvia on my olfactory nerve 
is in no respect like the state of my mind which I call the 
sensation of smell. The vibrations of the tympanum, or 
the undulations of the auditory nerve, are in no respect 
similar to the state of my mind when I hear an oratorio of 
Handel. The two events are as unlike to each other as 
any that can be conceived. In what manner, then, does the 
one event become the cause of the other ? 

A variety of answers has been given to these questions. 
The manner in which the subject has been formerly treated 
is substantially as follows : It was taken for granted that 
the mind was a spiritual essence, whose seat was the brain ; 
that the mind could only act or be acted upon in the place 
where it actually resided, and that, as external objects were 
at a distance from the mind, it was necessary for images of 
external objects to be present to it, in order that it might 
obtain a knowledge of their existence. 

Hence arose the doctrine of what has been called repre- 
sentative images. By some of the ancient philosophers it 
Was supposed that forms or species )f external ohjectl 



6<k INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 

enter?! the organs of sense, and through them became 
present to the mind, li was the opinion of Locke, so faf 
as I can understand him, that, in every act of perception, 
there is an intermediate image of the external object pres- 
ent to the mind, which the mind cognizes immediately, in- 
stead of the object itself. I am aware tha' the language of 
Locke is, on this subjeet, exceedingly unceitain and ambig- 
uous. Sometimes he seems to use the word idea to express 
merely an act of the mind, and, at other times, something 
present to the mind, but numerically distinct from it, which 
is the immediate object of knowledge. That, however, he 
really believed that in perception there must exist something, 
a positive entity, different both from the mind and its per- 
ceptive act, is evident from such passages as the following : 
'•There are some ideas which have admittance only 
through one sense which is peculiarly adapted to receive 
them." — " And if these organs, or the nerves which are the 
conduits to convey them from without to their audience in 
the brain, the mind's presence-room (as I may so call it), 
are any of them so disordered as not to perform their func- 
tions, they have no postern to be admitted by, no other way 
to bring themselves into view and be perceived by the un- 
derstanding." — Book II., chap. 3, sec. 1. 

Again: " If these external objects be not united to our 
minds when they produce ideas therein, and yet we perceive 
their original qualities in such of them as singly fall under 
our senses, it is evident that some motion must be thence 
continued by our nerves or animal spirits, by some parts of 
our bodies, to the brain or seat of sensation, there to produce 
the particular ideas we have of them. And since the ex- 
tension, figure, number and motion, of bodies of an observa- 
ble bigness, may be perceived at a distance by sight, it is 
evident some singly imperceptible bodies must come from 
them to the eycs : and thei»>by convey to the brain some 



THE PERCEPTIVE FACLLTIES. 35 

imtion which produces these ideas which we have of thein." 
— Book II. j chap. 8, sec. 12. 

Again : " I pretend not to teach, but to inquire, and there- 
fore cannot but confess here, again, that external and internal 
sensation are the only passages that I can find of knowledge to 
the understanding. These alone, as far as I can discover, 
are the windows by which light is let into this dark room ; 
for, methinks, the understanding is not much unlike a closet 
wholly shut from the light, with some little opening left to 
let in external visible resemblances or ideas of things 
without. Would the pictures coming into such a dark 
room but stay there and lie orderly, so as to be found upon 
occasion, it would very much resemble the understanding of 
a man in reference to all objects of sight and the ideas of 
them." — Bx>k il, chap. 2, sec. 17. 

From these quotations, — and many of the same kind might 
be added, — two things are evident : first, that Locke used 
the word idea to designate both the act of the mind in per- 
ception, a mere spiritual affection; and also something pro- 
ceeding from the external object which was the cause of this 
state. Secondly, that he did really recognize this interme- 
diate something as a positive entity which the soul cognizes 
instead of the outward object. He speaks of the nerves as 
the conduits to convey these ideas to their presence- 
chamber, the brain ; of imperceptible bodies which must 
come from them (external objects) to the eyes, and be 
conveyed to the brain. These expressions are too definite 
to be used figuratively, and we must, therefore, accept this 
explanation of the phenomena as a statement of the belief 
of our illustrious author. This belief, however, was by no 
means peculiar to him. It was a common belief at the time, 
and he always refers to it as a matter well understood, and 
received without question, by his cotemporaries. The stu- 
dent who wishes to pursue this subject farther, will read 



Sb INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 

■with pleasure the passages referred to at the close of th« 
chapter. 

The belief, then, prevalent at the time of Locke, may be 
stated briefly thus : The soul is located in the brain. It 
can cognize nothing except where it exists in space. Exter- 
nal objects, being separated from it, can never be the imme- 
diate objects of its perception. There must, therefore, pro- 
ceed from the external object to the mind some images or 
forms, which, entering by the senses, become present to the 
mind, and are there the objects of perception. Hence the 
mind never cognizes external objects ; this is, from the na- 
ture of the case, impossible. It only cognizes these images 
m the brain, and, from their resemblance to external objects, 
it learns the existence and qualities of the external world. 

Dr. Reid for a while believed this doctrine, but, startled 
at the conclusions to which it led, was induced to examine 
the foundations on which it rested. Upon reflection, he 
soon arrived at the following conclusions : 

1st. The existence of these images is inconceivable. We 
can conceive of the image of a form, but how can we con- 
ceive of the image of a color as existing in absolute dark- 
ness ; and still more of the image of a smell, a sound, or a 
taste ? Or how can we conceive of distinct images of all of 
these various qualities forming the conception of a single 
object ? 

2d. Were this theory conceivable, it is wholly destitute 
of proof. It is merely the conception of a philosopher's 
brain. Who ever saw such images ? Who, by his own 
consciousness, was ever aware of their existence ? What 
shadow of proof of their existence was ever given to the 
world 1 Are we, then, called upon to believe an inconceiva- 
ble hypothesis on no other evidence than merely the asser- 
tion of philosophers 1 

Sd. Were the existence of intermediate images proved, it 



THE PERCEPTIVE FACULTIES. 37 

would relieve the subject of no essential difficulty. It might 
reasonably be demanded, is it easier to cognize a small 
object than a large one ? If the image be matter, then the 
question still remains unanswered, how does a change of 
matter create thought, an affection of the soul ? Is the im- 
age spirit? Then it cannot resemble the external object, and 
can give us no notion of its qualities. And, more than all, 
if -re never cognize the object, but only the image, how can 
we have any knowledge whatever either of the external 
object or of its qualities? 

The suo-crestion of these considerations abolished at once 
the doctrine of a representative image. Since the time of Dr. 
Reid, it has, I think, been conceded, by the most judicious 
writers on this subject, that we know nothing concerning the 
mode of perception beyond a statement of the facts. There 
is a series of physical facts which can be proved by experi- 
ment to exist. When these terminate there arise knowl- 
edges of two kinds : the one a simple knowledge, as when I 
am conscious of a smell or a sound ; the other a compound 
knowledge, embracing a simple idea, as of color or form, 
and also an idea of an external object of which these quali- 
ties are predicated. Both of these are pure and ultimate 
cognitions. We are as perfectly convinced of the truth of 
the one as of the other. I as fully believe that I see a 
rose, that its leaves are green and its petals red, as that I 
smell an odor which I have learned to call the smell of a 
rose. I cognize no image, I cognize the rose itself; and I 
am as sure of its existence as I am of my own. Such seems 
to be the law of perception under which I have been created. 
I can neither change these perceptions, nor help relying with, 
perfect confidence on the truths which they reveal to me. 
If I am a?ked to explain it any farther. I confess myself 
finable to do so. If investigation shall enable us to establish 
any additional facts in the series by which tin? material 
4 



llMi^JLL.iiUlUAlj -FmJbUSUjt'ilY. 



change terminates in thought, we will accept its diacoverie 
with thankfulness. Until this is done, it is far better, when 
we have reached the utmost limit of our knowledge, humbly 
to confess our ignorance of all that is beyond. 

The doctrine of a representative image would not, at the 
present day, deserve even a passing notice, were it not for 
the consequences which were deduced from it. Some of 
these are worthy of remark. 

In the first place, it was difficult to conceive how the soul 
could be affected and thought produced by any change in 
matter. It was supposed that this difficulty could be re- 
lieved by the hypothesis of representative images. But 
then it was demanded, are these images matter or spirit ? 
If they are matter, and matter cannot act but upon matter, 
since they act on the mind, the mind must be matter. Hence 
was deduced the doctrine of materialism. Or, on the other 
hand, are these images spirit ? In this case, spirit might 
act upon spirit; but then how could spiritual images proceed 
from matter, and, more still, how could they resemble mat- 
ter? If, then, we cognize nothing but these, whence is 
the evidence of any material world ? Hence the doctrine 
of idealism. 

But again. It is granted in this hypothesis that we can 
cognize in itself nothing external. We cognize nothing but 
images, and it is impossible for us to cognize anything else. 
But it was apparent that no images, which could by possi- 
bility pass through the nerves, could resemble external qual- 
ities ; what reason, then, have we to believe that the external 
quality is, in any respect, like the image which alone we 
are able to contemplate 1 Again : in order to know that the 
images are similar to the objects which they represent, we 
must know both the object and its representative. But by 
necessity we can know only the one , how can we affirm that 
it resembles the other ? If I enter a gallery of paintings, 



THE PERCEPTIVE FACULTIES. 39 

how can I determine whether the pictures are likeneBses or 
are mere productions of the fancy; if neither I nor any other 
man had ever seen any originals of which they could be the 
resemblances'? Hence it is manifest that the evidence of the 
existence of a material world, or of anything existing out 
of the mind, is at once swept away. Reasoning in this 
manner, Bishop Berkeley arrived at idealism. He denied the 
existence of an external world, and concluded that nothing 
existed but spirit and the affections of spirit. 

But this idea was generalized. It was admitted that we 
could not cognize external objects directly, but only through 
the medium of representative images. If this is true of 
material, why is it not true of spiritual objects, — of the 
cognitions of consciousness ? Why do we not cognize them 
by means of representations ? But if we cognize them 
thus, and have no cognition of the objects themselves, how 
do wc know that there is any such existence as mind or its 
faculties ? In short, how do we know that anything exists 
but ideas and impressions 'I How do we know that any such 
realities exist as time, space, eternity, Deity ? ^.11 is re- 
solved into a succession of ideas, which follow each other by 
the laws of association, and besides these there is nothing in 
the universe. This is nihilism, and such consequences were 
actually deduced by some philosophers from this doctrine. 
It was- surely important to examine the evidences of an hy- 
pothesis which led to such results. 

This imperfect fragment of the history of intellectual 
philosophy is not without its value. It teaches us the vast 
superiority of the acknowledgment of ignorance, to the gratu- 
itous assumption of knowledge. When we have reached the 
limits of our knowledge, there is no harm in confessing that 
beyond this we do not know. But to look out into the 
darkness, and dogmatically to affirm what exists beyond the 
roach of our vision, may exclude invaluable truth, and in< 



40 



INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 



troduce the most alarming error. Thus, in the present in 
Stance, a hypothetical explanation of a fact, which in out 
present state does not seem to admit of explanation, when 
carried out to its legitimate results was found to terminate 
in universal scepticism, and furnish a foundation for consis- 
tent atheism. Philosophy will certainly have made impor- 
tant progress when it shall have been able accurately to 
determine the limits of human inquiry. 

REFERENCES. 



Representative images — Locae, Book 2, chap. 8, sec. 1 ; chap. 8, sec. 
12 ; chap 11, sec. 17. Reid's Inquiry, chap. 1, sees. 3 — 7 ; 2d Essay, 
chaps. 4, 7, 9, 14. Stewart, vol. 1, chap. 1, sec. 3. Introduction, Part 
1, vol. 2 chap. 4, sec. 1 ; chap. 1, sec. 3. Cousin, Psychology, chaps. 6 
and 7. 

Knowledge an agreement between the idea and object — Lock* Book 4, 
chap. 1, sec. 2 ; chap. 4, sec. 3. Cousin, chap. 6. 
. Consciousness an authority — Chapter 1. 

Three things existent in perception — Reid, 2d Essay, chap. 5. 

Idealise and Nihilism — Cousin, chap. 6, last part, and chap 7 IWd 
Vi Essay, shapa. 10—12. 



TD£ INDIVIDUAL SENSES SEJ IRATELY CONSIDERED 



SECTION IV. — OF TIIE SENSE OF SMELL. 

Having, in the preceding chapter, treated of our percep- 
tive powers in general, I proceed to describe the particular 
senses with which we have been endowed. Proceeding from 
the simpler to the more complex, I shall examine, in order, 
smell, taste, hearing, touefl and sight. 

The organ of smell is situated in the back part of the 
nostrils. It is composed of thin laminae of bone, folded 
together like a slip of parchment, over which the olfactory 
nerve is spread, covered by the ordinary mucous membrane 
which lines the mouth and posterior fauces. It is so situ- 
ated that the whole surface of the organ is exposed to the 
current of air in the act of inspiration. 

In those animals which seek their prey by scent, this or- 
gan is found larger, exposing a greater amount of surface 
to the air, than in those which pursue their prey by sight 
The perfection in which this sense is enjoyed by some of the 
lower animals bus always been a subject of remark. A 
dog will track the footsteps of his master through the streets 
of a crowded city, and, after a long absence, will recognize 
him by smell as readily as by sight or hearing. 

When we are brought near to an odoriferous body, we 
immediately become sensible of a knowledge, a feeling, or a 
4* 



*2 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 

particular &tate of mind. If a tuberose is brought ne^r a 
person who has never smelled it, he is at once conscious of 
a form of knowledge entirely new to him. If we do not 
by our other senses, know the cause of the sensation, we 
have no name for it, but are obliged to designate it by re- 
ferring to the place where we experienced it. If, by our 
other senses, we have learned the cause of the sensation, we 
designate it by the name of the object which produces it. 
Were the perfume of a rose present to me for the first 
time, and did I not see the flower, I could give to it no name. 
As soon as I have ascertained that the perfume proceeds 
from the rose, I call it the smell of a rose. We thus seo 
clearly that from this sense we derive nothing but a sensation, 
a simple knowledge, which neither gives us a cognition of 
anything external, nor teaches us that anything exists out 
of ourselves. 

The exercise of this sensation is either agreeable, indif- 
ferent or disagreeable. The perfume of flowers, fruit, aro- 
matic herbs, &c, is commonly pleasant. The odor of ob- 
jects in common use is generally indifferent. The odor ot 
putrid matter, either animal or vegetable, is excessively dis- 
agreeable. In general, it may be remarked that substances 
which are healthful for food are agreeable to the smell ; 
while those which are deleterious are unpleasant. The 
final cause of this general law is evident, and the reason 
why the organ of smell in all animals is placed directly over 
the mouth. Odors of all kinds, however, if they be long 
continued, lose their power of affecting us. We soon 
become insensible to the perfume of the flowers of a garden ; 
and men, whose vocation requires them to labor in the midst 
of carrion, after a short time become insensible to the often - 
give effluvia by which they are surrounded. 

Pleasant odors are refreshing and invigorating, and re- 
store, for the time, t^e exhausted nervous energy. Offen* 



THE INDIVIDUAL SENSES. 43 

pive odew, on the other hand, are depressing to the spirits, 
and tend to gkom and despondency. The former of these 
effects is alluded to with great beauty in the well-known 
lines of Milton 

** As when to them who sail 
Beyond the Cape of Hope, and now are past 
Mozambique ; off at sea, north-east winds blow 
Sabean odars from the spicy shore 
Of Araby the blest ; with such delay 
Well pleased, they slack their course, and many a league, 
Cheered with the grateful smell, old Ocean smiles." 

Paradise Lost, Book 4, lines 159 — 165. 

Concerning the manner in which this sensation is pro- 
duced, I believe that but one hypothesis has been suggested. 
The received opinion is that what is called effluvia, or ex- 
tremely minute particles, are given off by the odorous body, 
that these are dissolved in the air, and brought in contact 
with the organ of this sense in the act of breathing. That 
this may be so is quite probable. It is, however, destitute 
of direct proof, and is liable to many objections. It is dif- 
ficult to conceive how a single grain of musk can, for a long 
time, fill the area of a large room with ever so minute par- 
ticles, without visible diminution of either volume or weight. 
Until, however, some better theory shall be presented, we 
seem justified in receiving that which even imperfectly ac- 
counts for the facts in the case. Still, we are to remember 
that it is merely a hypothesis, to be abandoned as soon as 
iny better explanation is established by observation. 

From what has been already remarked, it must be, I 
think, evident that the sense of smell gives us no percep- 
tion. It is the source of a simple knowledge which alone 
would never lead us out of ourselves. This sensation clearly 
gives us no notion whatever of the quality which produces 



14 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 

it, noi have philosophers ever been able to determine wha 
that quality is. It is possible that the suggestion of caus< 
and effect might indicate to us the probability of a cause 
but the sense itself would neither awaken this inquiry no: 
furnish us with the means of answering it. 

Does the sense of smell furnish us with any conception ' 
By conception, I mean a notion of a thing, such as wil 
enable us, when the object itself is absent, to make it * 
distinct object of thought. Thus I have seen a lily; I cai 
form a distinct notion of its form and color, and I can com 
pare it with a rose, and from my conceptions point out th< 
difference between them. I could describe this lily, fron 
my conception of it, so that another person could have th< 
same notion of it as myself. Were I a painter, I could ex- 
press my conception on canvas. Now, is there a simila] 
power of forming a conception of a smell ? Can I form \ 
distinct notion of the smell of an apple or a peach, and cai 
I compare them together, or describe them by language, 0] 
in any other manner transfer my conception to another 
So far as I can discover, from observing the operation of 
my own mind, all this is impossible. After having sme!le( 
an odorous body, I know that I should be able to recogniz< 
that particular odor again. I cannot form a conception oi 
the smell of a rose, but I know that I could, if it wen 
present, immediately recognize it and distinguish it from al 
other odors. Beyond this I am conscious of no powe; 
whatever. 

This, however, I am aware, is but the experience of j 
single individual. Other persons may be more richly en 
do wed than myself. I have frequently put this question t< 
the classes which I have instructed, and I find the testimony 
not altogether uniform. Some few young gentlemen in even 
class have assured me that they had as definite a conceptioi 
of a smell as they had of a color or a form. The greatei 



THE INDIVIDUAL SENSES. 45 

part, however, have agreed with me that they had no power 
to form the conception in question. 

It has, very probably, occurred to the reader that the 
words, "the smell of a rose," convey two entirely different 
meanings ; the one objective, the other subjective. The 
"smell of a rose" may designate a peculiar feeling or 
knowledge existing in my mind, or it may designate the un- 
known cause of that feeling. Thus, when I say the smell 
of a rose is sometimes followed by fainting, I mean the sen- 
sation produced in the mind. I say the apartment is filled 
with the smell of a rose. I here mean the unknown quality 
existing in the rose. Both of these expressions I suppose 
to be correct, and in harmony with the idiom of the Eng- 
lish language. The same ambiguity exists in all the terms 
commonly used to designate sensations. Thus, the taste of 
an apple, heat, cold, sweet, sour, and many others, admit of 
a similar twofold signification. 

Chemical philosophers, aware of this ambiguity in lan- 
guage, have wisely introduced a new term, by which, in a 
particular case, this difficulty may be obviated. Observing 
that the term " heat " may signify a certain feeling in my 
mind, as well as the unknown cause of that feeling existing 
in a burning body, and as they were continually treating 
of the one, and almost never of the other, they have desig- 
nated the two ideas by different words. Retaining the term 
heat to signify the sensation of a sentient being, they use 
the word " caloric " to designate the unknown cause of the 
sensation. Every one must perceive how much definiteness 
the use of this term has added to this branch of philosoph - 
ical inquiry. 

REFERENCE. 
Raid's Inqi iry, chapter 2, the whole chaptei. 



£6 INTELLECTUAL PHIL0S01 R.Y. 



SECTION V. — THE SENSE OF TASTE. 

The nerves of taste are spread over the tongue and the 
back part of the fauces. They terminate in numerous 
papillae, or small excrescences, which form together the or- 
gan of taste. It is almost needless to observe that the 
nerves are everywhere covered with the men?6rane lining 
the mouth, and never come in immediate contact with the 
sapid substance. These papillae are most numerous on the 
tip, the edges, and the root of the tongue, leaving many 
portions of the intermediate surface almost destitute of this 
sensation. 

The sense of taste is never excited except by solutions. 
The saliva, which is copiously furnished by the glands of the 
mouth, is an active solvent. By mastication, the solid food 
becomes intimately mixed with this animal fluid, is partially 
dissolved by it, and, in this condition, is brought into rela- 
tion to the papillae which constitute the organ of taste. 
Insoluble substances are, therefore, tasteless. When the 
papillae of the tongue either become dry, or are covered 
with the thick coating produced by fever, taste becomes im- 
perfect or is wholly suspended. 

When a sapid body, under normal circumstances, is 
brought into relation with the organ of taste, a sensation either 
pleasing or displeasing immediately ensues. • When the sen- 
sation is pleasant, we are instinctively impelled to swallow, 
and with the act of swallowing the sensation is perfected 
and ceases. When the sensation is unpleasant, we are, on 
the other hand, impelled to reject whatever may be the cause 
of it, and frequently it requires a strong effort of the will 
to control this impulse. The sensation of taste is not con 
Bummated without the act of swa 1 lowing. It would seem 



THE INDIVIDUAL SENSES. 47 

probable that the anterior and posterior nerves of the tongue 
were designed to perform different offices, the former giv- 
ing us an imperfect sensation, which creates the disposition 
either to swallow or to reject the sapid substance ; the latter 
awakening the perfected sensation as the substance passes 
over it. 

As in the case of smell, so in that of taste, I think that 
with the sensation no perception is connected. A particular 
sensibility is excited ; a feeling either pleasant or unpleasant 
is created ; a simple knowledge is given us ; — but no cog- 
nition of anything external can be observed. Whatever 
notions of externality come to us, by means of this sense, 
are derived from other sources than the sense itself. Thus, 
we can receive nothing into the mouth except by bring- 
ing it into contact with the lips. The sense of touch 
then cognizes it as something external to ourselves. The 
suggestion of cause and effect might lead us possibly to the 
same conclusion. These, however, are no parts of the sense 
of taste. The taste in the mouth which frequently accom- 
panies disease, awakens no idea of anything external. 
When, however, by means of our other senses, we have 
learned that a particular flavor is produced by any sub- 
stance, we associate the flavor with the substance, and give 
it a name accordingly. AVe thus speak of the taste of an 
apple, a pear, or a peach. 

So far as I am able to discover, the remarks made in the 
last section, respecting conception as derived from smell, 
apply with equal truth to the sense of taste. I think that 
men generally have no distinct conception of an absent taste, 
but only a conviction that they should easily recognize it if 
it were again presented to them. This form of recollection 
may be so strong as to create a longing for a particular fla- 
vor, but still there is no conception like that produced by 
cither sighl or touch. 



18 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 

The same ambiguity may be observed here as in tlia 
analogous sense. The taste of an apple, means both the 
quality in the fruit which produces the sensation and the 
affection of the sentient being produced by it. The one is 
objective, belonging exclusively to the nou ego ; the other is 
subjective, belonging wholly to the igo. Of the sensation 
we have a very definite knowledge ; it can be nothing but 
what we feel it to be. Of the cause we are, as in the sense 
of smell, wholly ignorant. 

The number of sensations derived from taste is, I think, 
much greater than that derived from smell. An epicure 
becomes capable of multiplying them, and distinguishing 
them from each other to a very great extent. We are able, 
also, to classify our sensations of taste much more definitely 
than those of smell. Thus, we speak of acid, subacid, 
sweet, bitter, astringent, and many other classes of tastes, to 
which we refer a large number of individuals. In this 
manner we designate various kinds of fruit, medicines, &c. 
While, therefore, these two senses seem to be governed 
by the same general laws, I think that in man the knowl- 
edge derived from taste is more definite and more varied 
than the other. By means of the sense of touch, which so 
completely surrounds the sense of taste, we should, in the 
use of it, also arrive at the idea of externality. In this 
respect it is indirectly the source of knowledge which is not 
given us by the sense of smell. In blind mutes, however, 
to whom the sense of smell becomes much more important, 
in all probability the case is reversed, and smell furnishes 
more numerous and definite cognitions than taste. 

1 have said above that the sensation of taste is not per- 
fectly experienced unless the sapid substance is swallowed. 
Whatever is swallowed enters the stomach, undergoes the 
process of digestion, and, whether nutritious or deleterious, 
enters the circulation and becomes assimilated with our ma- 



TIIE INDIVIDUAL SENSES. 49 

tenal system It i* manifest, therefore, that if a substance 
be pleasing to the caste, we may, by gratifying this sense, 
^willow either what is in itself deleterious, or that which 
:ecomes deleterious by being partaken of in excess. It is, 
.«nce, evidently important that the gratification of the 
sense be made subordinate to the higher design : that of 
promoting the health and vigor, physical and intellectual, 
of the whole man. 

In brutes, for the most part, the gratification of the appe- 
tite is controlled by instinct. The instances are very rare 
in which one of the lower animals has any desire for food 
which is not nutritious, or desires it in larger quantity than 
the health of the system demands. Man, however, is en- 
dowed with no such instinct. The regulation of his appc 
tite is submitted to his will, directed by reason and con 
science. Guided by these, a perfect harmony will exist 
between his gustatory desire and the wants of his material 
and intellectual organization. 

But suppose it to be otherwise. Suppose the human be- 
ing to swallow neither what nor as much as his health 
requires, but what and as much as will furnish gratification 
to his palate. He will eat or drink much that is delete- 
rious, and much which, by excess, becomes destructive to 
health. When, by frequent indulgence, this subjection to 
appetite has grown into a habit, the control of the spiritual 
over the sensual is lost, and the man becomes either a glut- 
ton or a drunkard, and very commonly both. 

The eifects of these forms of indulgence are too well 
known to require specification. Gluttony, or the excessive 
love of food, renders the intellect sluggish, torpid and inef- 
ficient, cultivates the most degrading forms of selfishness, 
exposes the body to painful and lingering disease, and fre- 
quently terminates in sudden death. 
5 



50 INT1LLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 

" The full-fed glutton apoplexy knocks 
Down to the ground at once, as butcher felleth ox." 

Thompson's Castle of Indoh ice. 

The appetite for deleterious drinks leads to consequences 
still more appalling. In a very short time it ruins the 
health, enfeebles the intellect, maddens the passions, de- 
stroys all self-respect, and, in the most disgusting manner, 
brutalizes the whole being. It speedily and insensibly grows 
into a habit which enslaves the nervous organism, sets at 
defiance the power of the will, and thus renders the ruin of 
the being, both for time and eternity, inevitable. We hence 
perceive the importance of holding our appetites in strict 
subjection to the dictates of reason and conscience, and 
especially of excluding the possibility of our ever becoming 
the victims of intemperance. 

RE FERENCE. 
Reid's Inquiry, chapter 3 



SECTION VI. — THE SENSE OF HEARING. 

The organ of this sense is the ear. It is composed of 
two parts, the external and internal ear. The external ear 
fe intended merely to collect and concentrate the vibrations of 
the air, and conduct them to the membrana tympani, 
which separates the two portions of this organ. Tin 
external ear thus performs the functions of an ear-trumpet. 
The membiana tympani is a thin membrane stretched 
across the lower extremity of the tube in which the outward 
ear terminates. The vibrations of the air, thus produced 
upon the tympanum, are, by a series of small bones occu* 
pying its inner chamber, transmitted to certain cells filled 
with fluid, in which the extremity of the auditory nervt 



THE INDIVIDUAL SENSES. 51 

terminates. Erom these cells the nerve proceeds directly to 
the brain. 

The medium by which the auditory nerve is affected, is 
the atmospheric air. Sonorous bodies of all kinds produce 
vibrations or undulations in the air, which strike upon the 
tympanum, and are, by the apparatus above alluded to, con- 
veyed to the auditory nerve. The effect produced upon the 
nerve is simply that of mechanical vibration, and this vibra- 
tion, so far as we can discover, is the cause of the sensation 
of sound. A mere fluctuation in the extremities of the 
nerve is the occasion of all the lelight which we experience 
in listening to the sublimest compositions of a Handel or a 
Mozart. No more convincing proof can be afforded that 
there is no conceivable resemblance between the change in 
the organ of sense, and the delightful cognition of the soul, 
which it occasions. 

The number of sounds which the human ear is able to 
distinguish is very great. Dr. Reid remarks that there are 
five hundred tones which may be distinctly recognized by a 
good ear ; and that each tone may be produced with five 
hundred degrees of loudness. This would give us two hun- 
dred and fifty thousand different sounds which could be per- 
ceived by an ear of ordinary accuracy. This I presume is 
true; but a little reflection will convince us that the number 
)f sounds which we are able to distinguish far transcends 
ah human computation. The voice of every human being 
may easily be distinguished from that of every other, while 
the number of separate sounds which every individual is 
able to produce, including tones, loudness, stress and em- 
phasis, is absolutely incalculable. If the same note bo 
struck by ever so many different instruments, the sound of 
each instrument can be readily recognized. If ten thou- 
*and instruments of the same kind were collected, it is prob- 
kble that no two could be found whose sounds would be 



52 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 

identical. Numbers which accumulate by such masses set 
all computation at defiance. 

Although our power of distinguishing the smallest varia- 
tion of sound is so remarkable, it has been observed that 
there are some sounds which are inaudible to particular 
persons. It seems probable that each ear is endowed with 
the power of cognizing sounds within a particular range, 
but that this range is not the same in every individual. 
This difference is, I think, most observable in the shrillest 
sounds, or those pitched on the highest key, and producec 
by the most rapid vibrations. I have known some persons 
who were unable to hear the sound produced by a species of 
cricket, while to other persons the sound was so loud as to bo 
unpleasant. I think that Dr. Reid remarks the same pecu- 
liarity respecting himself. 

We all possess, to a considerable degree, the power of 
determining the direction from which sounds proceed. We 
derive this power, probably, in part, from the fact that our 
ears are separated at some distance from each other, on op- 
posite sides of the head, and hence a sound must, in many 
cases, affect the one differently from the other. Persons 
who have lost the use of one ear much less easily determine 
the direction of sounds. This power, moreover, is greatly 
improved by practice. We learn, in this manner, to form a 
judgment of the distance of sounds, and to associate with 
them much other knowledge which properly belongs to the 
other senses. Thus, it is said that Napoleon was never de- 
ceived as to the direction or distance of a cannonade, and 
the remarkable precision of his judgment always excited the 
wonder of his friends. 

It is in this manner, I presume, that ventriloquism, as it 
is termed, is to be explained. We have learned by experi- 
ence to determine the distance and direction of scunds. 
For instance, I hear a person speakmg. The quality of the 



THE INPIVIDVAL SENSEJ. 53 

Bound, its degiee of loudness and distinctness, teach me 
that it is produced by some one on my left hand, and in the 
street which passes by my window. If a person in the room 
with me were aole to produce a sound which should strike 
upon my ear precisely like that which I just now heard. I 
should suppose that it proceeded from the same place aa 
before. The effect would be more remarkable, if he should, 
by some ingenious device, direct my attention to the window, 
and create in me the impression that some one was outside 
of it. In order to accomplish this result, it is necessary 
that the performer be endowed with an ear capable of de- 
tecting every possible variety in the quality of sound, and 
vocal organs of such extreme delicacy that they are able 
perfectly to obey the slightest intimation of the will. I 
have never witnessed any performance of this kind, but I 
have known one or two persons who possessed this power in 
a modified degree, and this is the account which they have 
e .ven me concerning it. I am told that those who perform 
these feats publicly are also able to create the sounds which 
we. hear, without moving, in the least, the visible organs of 
speech. How they are able, in this manner, to produce 
articulate sounds, I am unable to explain. 

Is hearing a sensation or a perception ? That is, does it 
furnish us with a simple knowledge, without giving us any 
cognition of an external world; or does it furnish us with a 
complex knowledge, that is, a knowledge of a quality and 
of the object in which it resides? 

The knowledge furnished by this sense seems to me to be 
of the following character : it is purely a sensation, a simple 
knowledge, giving us no intimation of any tiling externa) 
The knowledge, however, derived from this sense, differs 
from those which Ave have already considered, in many 
particulars. Some of these are worthy of attenticn. 

The sensation of hearing is much more definite, w**i, 
5* 



fr4 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 

and intensely pleasing, than that derived from either of th€ 
preceding senses. It has, moreover, a power of strongly 
affecting the tone of mind of the hearer. These impressions 
being made upon a being endowed with original sugges- 
tion, would naturally occasion an inquiry for a cause. 
While hearing a strain of music, it would at once occur to us 
that we did not produce it, that we could not prolong it, and, 
hence, that it must originate from something external to our- 
selves. We should thus learn that there existed something 
out of ourselves ; but what that something was, the sense of 
hearing would furnish us with no means of determining. 
Let a man hear a violin, a bugle, or a piano, and, though he 
would readily observe a difference between them, he could 
by this sense alone form no conception of the nature of 
either instrument, or of the medium through which an im- 
pression was made upon his auditory nerve. When did a 
peal of thunder ever suggest to man the nature of the cause 
which produced it ? In this respect, therefore, the sense of 
hearing differs from those already considered. It suggests 
to us the idea of a cause, but gives us no knowledge of the 
nature of that cause. 

In another respect, however, the sensation of hearing is 
peculiar. It enables us to form very definite conceptions. 
Smell and taste possess this power, if at all, in a very lim- 
ited degree. By no power of language can we convey to 
another the knowledge which they give us. The sense of 
hearing enables us to proceed much further. We hear a 
Bound ; we can repeat it. We hear a tune ; we can mentally 
recall it without producing any sound whatever, and wo can 
derive pleasure from this silent conception of it. Still 
more, we are able to designate a great variety of articulate 
Bounds by the alphabet. By means of this notation, the 
rounds of a speaker's voice can be so recorded, that another 
person who has not heard him, and who may not even under*- 



THF INDIVIDUAL SENSES. 55 

stand the language in -which ho has spoken, may be able 
accurately to repeat all that he has said. The case is still 
stronger when the words uttered are set to music. Here 
it is not only possible to note down the words, but also 
the precise musical notes in which they were expressed, so 
that the song, and the tune in which it was sung, may bo 
accurately repeated by a person on the other side of tho 
gbbe. 

I have remarked that our conception of musical sounds 
may give us pleasure in perfect silence ; as when we remem- 
ber a strain which we have heard on a former occasion. 
This is yet more observable when sounds are described by 
their appropriate notation. A skilful musician will read 
the notes of an opera or oratorio, form the conception as he 
proceeds, and derive from them as definite a pleasure as he 
who reads the pages of a romance or a tragedy. It has 
frequently happened that the most eminent musicians have 
been afflicted with deafness. It is delightful to observe that 
this infirmity in only a modified degree deprives them of 
their accustomed pleasure. They sit at an instrument, 
touching the notes as usual, and become as much excited 
with their own conceptions as they were formerly by sounds. 
Under these circumstances, some of them have composed 
their most elaborate and successful productions. These 
facts establish a wide dhTerence between the sense of hearing 
and the senses of taste and smell. The latter produce in 
us no definite conceptions, and are susceptible of being formed 
into no such language. Hearing is evidently a much more 
intellectual sense than either of those which we have thus 
far considered. 

Besides, musical sounds have an acknowledged power 
over the tone of the human mind. By the tone of mind. I 
mean that condition of our emotional nature which inclines 
Us to be grave or gay, lively or sad, kind 01 austere, appr©-« 



56 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHS". 

heDsive or reckless. New, it is well known that music haa 
the power not only to harmonize with any of these tones of 
mind, and thus increase it, but in many cases to alter and 
control it. Every one knows the difference between a sport- 
ive and a melancholy air, between a dirge and a quickstep; 
and every one also knows how readily his tone of mind as- 
similates with the character of the music which he chances 
to hear. Sacred music, well performed, renders deeper the 
spirit of devotion. The hilarity of a ball-room would in- 
stantly cease if the music were withdrawn. I question if 
the martial spirit of a nation could be sustained for a single 
year, if music were banished from its armies ; and military 
evolutions, whether on parade or in combat, were performed 
under no other excitement than the mere word of command. 
From these well-known facts, an sesthetical principle may 
be deduced of some practical importance. The design of 
music is to affect the tone of mind. To do this, it must be 
in harrfiony with it. No one would think a psalm tune 
adapted to a charge of cavalry ; and every one would be 
shocked to hear a devotional hymn sung to the tune of a 
martial quickstep. It hence follows, that what may be 
good music for one occasion, may be very bad music for 
another. If we are called upon to judge of the excellence 
of any piece of music, it is not enough that the music be 
good, — the question yet remains to be decided, is it good for 
this particular occasion ; that is, does it harmonize with the 
particular tone of mind which the words employed would 
naturally awaken ? If it do not, though it may be very 
good music for some occasions, it is bad music in this par- 
ticular case. The II Penseroso and the L' Allegro of Mil- 
ton have, I believe, been set to music, and, if the music 
were adapted to the thought, the effect of these beautiful po- 
ems would be increased by it. But every one sees that the 
music adapted to the one must be very unlike that adapted 



THE INDIVIDUAL SENSES. 5) 

to the other. Let the music be transferred from the 
one to the other, and the incongruity would be painful ; 
and what was just now good music would become at once 
intolerable. Much of the church music at present in vogue 
seems to me to partake of the incongruity of such a trans- 
position 

Here, also, the question may be asked, whether all poetry 
is adapted to music. From the preceding remarks it would 
seem that it is not, unless it awaken some emotion. And 
again, the emotion in some cases may not be adapted to 
music. Terror, horror, the deepest impressions of awe, are 
probably not adapted to musical expression. The attempts 
which have been made to convey such emotions by music 
have, I apprehend, generally failed. They may, like much 
other music, display the skill of the composer or the per 
former, but they leave the audience unmoved. 

Another peculiarity of this sense deserves to be mentioned 
By it we are capable of forming a natural language under 
stood by all men. Our emotions instinctively express them- 
selves by the tones of the voice, and these are easily recog- 
nized by those to whom they are addressed. Every one 
understands the tones indicative of kindness, of authority, 
of pity, of rage, of sarcasm, of encouragement and contempt 
Should a man address us in an unknown tongue, W e 

CD I 

should immediately learn his temper towards us by the 
tones of his voice. The knowledge of these tones is common 
to all men, under all circumstances. Children of a very 
tender age learn to interpret them ; nay, even brutes seem 
to understand their meaning very distinctly. Li would seem, 
then, that the tones of the voice form a medium of communi- 
cation, not onlv between man and man, but even between 
man and some of the inferior animals. 

I have said that these tones of the voice are universally 
Understood. It is also true that they have the power of 



68 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 

awakening an emoticn, similar to that which produced them, 
in the mind of the hearer. A shriek of terror will convulse 
a whole assembly. It is said that Garrick once went to 
hear Whitefield preach, and was much impressed with the 
power of that remarkable pulpit orator. Speaking afterwards 
of the preacher's eloquence, he is reported to have said, " I 
would give a hundred pounds to utter the word Oh ! as White- 
field utters it." It is probable that it is in the power of 
expressing our emotions by the tones of the voice, more than 
n anything else, that the gift of eloquence consists. This 
was, I presume, the meaning of Demosthenes, who. when 
asked what was the first, and the second, and the third ele- 
ment of eloquence, replied, successively, "Delivery, delivery, 
delivery ! " This is, I think, illustrated in the case to which 
I have alluded. Whitefield' s printed sermons do not place 
him high on the list of English preachers ; while, as they 
were delivered by Whitefield himself, they produced effects 
which can only be ascribed to the very highest efforts of 
eloquence. 

The relation of these remarks to the cultivation of elo- 
quence is obvious. Suppose a public speaker to be aMe to 
construct a train of thought which shall lead the minds 
of men, by logical induction, to a given result. Suppose, 
moreover, that this train of reasoning is clothed in appro- 
priate diction, so that it is adapted not only to convince, 
but to please an audience. It is now to be delivered in the 
hearing of men. It may be delivered in so monotonous 
tones as to put an assembly to sleep, or in tones so inappro- 
priate and grotesque as to provoke them to laughter. It is 
now necessary that the orator be deeply moved by his own 
conceptions, and that he be able to give utterance to his own 
emotions in the tones of his voice. His organs of speech 
must be capable of every variety of expression, and they 
must so instinctively respond to every emotion, that the 



THE INDIVIDUAL SENSES. 59 

thought which the speaker enunciates is lodged in the mind 
of the hearer, animated by the precise feeling of him who 
utters it. He who is thus endowed can hardly fail of 
becoming an orator. Hence, if we would improve in 
eloquence, we must studiously cultivate the natural tones 
of emotion; in the first place by feeling truly ourselves, 
and, in the second, by learning to express our emotions in 
this language which all men understand. 

REFERENCE. 
Reid's Inquiry, chap. 4, sections 1, 2 



SECTION VII. — THE SENSE OF TOUCH. 

The nerves of feeling are situated under the skin, and 
are plentifully distributed over the whole external surface. 
So completely does the network which they form cover the 
whole body, that the point of the finest needle cannot punc- 
ture us in any part without wounding a nerve, and giving us 
acute pain. It is in this manner that we are guarded from 
injury. Were any portion of our body insensible, we might 
there suffer the most appalling laceration without being 
aware of our danger. 

The chief seat of the nerves of touch is, however, in the 
palm of the hand, and in the ends of the fingers. The 
other parts of the body render us sensible of injury from 
external sources, but they are incapable of furnishing us 
with any definite perceptions. The hand, on the contrary, 
conveys to us very exact knowledge of the tactual qualities 
of bodies. For this purpose it is admirably adapted. The 
separation of the fingers from each other, their complicated 
flexions, the extreme delicacy of their muscular power, n!! 



60 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY". 

combine to render this organ susceptible of an infinite vari ity 
of definite impressions. 

Though the fingers are separated, yet in using then 
together, when a single object is presented, but one percep- 
tion is conveyed to the mind. It would seem, however, 
that, in order to produce this result, corresponding points of 
the fingers must be applied to the object. If we. change 
them from their normal position, by crossing the second over 
the fore-finger, two perceptions will be produced, and a 
small object, as a pea, will seem to us double. 

The sensation of touch is of two kinds, as it is caused, 
first, by temperature, and secondly by contact. 

The sensation produced by temperature is that of cold or 
heat. It is awakened by any body whose temperature differs 
from that of our external surface. When we place our 
hands in water only blood warm, we are not conscious of 
this sensation. If we place one hand in hot, and the other 
in cold water, for a few minutes, and then remove them both 
to tepid water, we experience the sensation of heat in the 
one and of cold in the other. 

The effect produced upon us by temperature is a simple 
knowledge, a pure sensation. It gives us no knowledge 
of anything external. During the first chill of a fever we 
are unable to determine whether the weather is cold, or our 
system diseased ; that is, whether the sensation proceeds 
from without or from within. And when the sensation pi > 
^eds from without, it gives no information respecting ita 
cause, or the manner in which it affects us. 

Heat and cold are merely affections of a sensitive organ- 
ism. That which causes them is called by chemists 
caloric. This quality in bodies has opened a wide field for 
philosophical investigation, which, by developing the lawa 
of steam, has modified the aspects of modern civilian 
tion. 



THE INDIVID ;al senses. 6 J 

Secondly, the sense of touch is excited Dy contact. I 
Ose the term contact here in its common, and not in its 
Btrict meaning. The nerves are always covered with the 
skin, and when by accident the skin is abraded, we feel pain, 
but we are conscious of no perception. Nor, in fact, is the 
skin itself ever in absolute contact with the external object. 
A layer of air always interposes between them. 

"When the hand is thus brought into proximity to an 
external body, we are immediately made conscious of its 
existence. In this act there may, I think, be discovered 
both a sensation and a perception. I have referred to this 
fact in a previous section. Nothing further will here be 
necessary than to appeal to the experience of every 
individual. Let any one place his hand lightly upon a 
piece of marble, or any external object, fixing his attention 
as much as possible upon his sensation, and he will, I think, 
find himself conscious of a feeling into which the idea of 
externality does not enter, and w r hich gives him no knowl- 
edge of the qualities of body. Let him now T take up the 
marble, and attempt to cognize its several qualities, and I 
think he will be conscious of a very different knowledge, 
involving the notions of externality, hardness, smoothness, 
form, and, it may be, some others. In this case he pays no 
attention to his sensations. It does not occur to him that 
they exist. All he is conscious of is the various qualities 
of tho external object, and of these he obtains a very dis- 
tinct cognition. It may require a small effort at first I 
distinguish these two forms of knowledge from each other, 
but I am persuaded that any one may do it who will be at 
the pains for a few times to make the experiment. 

The perceptions given us by this sense are exceedingly 

definite and perfect. By it we not only know that a quality 

exists, but also what it is. We have the knowledge, and 

we know what it is that produces it. In this manner tk? 

6 



62 INTELLBJTXAL x^HILOSCPHY. 

perceptions by touch lie at the foundation of all our knowl- 
edge of an external world. We rely upon them with more 
certainty than any other. Many of the qualities revealed 
to us by touch are also revealed to us by sight. If, how- 
ever, in any case, we have reason to doubt the evidence of 
sight, we instinctively apply to the sense of touch in order 
to verify our visual judgment. 

The principal qualities cognized by touch, besides exter- 
nality, are extension, hardness, softness, form, size, motion, 
situation, and roughness or smoothness. Besides these, 
however, there are various sensations of pain and pleasure 
given by this sense, the specific effect .of particular agents, 
as of electricity and galvanism, the sensation of tickling, 
and many others of the same kind. To this sense have also 
been ascribed the sensation of hunger and thirst, and the 
various affections belonging to our sensitive organism. 

Confining ourselves, however, to the 'perceptions of touch, 
we find that they are almost exclusively given us by the 
hand. In this manner we obtain a distinct knowledge of 
extension, of size, of hardness, softness and form. When 
the body is small, or the discrimination delicate, we rely 
almost wholly on the perceptive power of the fingers. In 
this manner we obtain, experimentally, nearly all our knowl- 
edge of the primary qualities of body. 

We may here remark the difference between the knowl- 
edge obtained by this sense, and that obtained by the senses 
previously considered. The others give us each a particular 
class of sensations, and only one kind of knowledge. By 
touch we are conscious of heat and cold, together Avith a 
great variety of other sensations, and also of the various 
perceptions of primary qualities mentioned above. Tho 
others give us no direct knowledge of an external world. 
This gives us that knowledge directly and immediately. 
The othei^ when the existence of an external world is sug- 



THE INDIVirjAL SENSES- 63 

gcsted. give us no knowledge of its qualities. This givea 
us a positive knowledge of several of the most essential of 
thein. We know, for instance, that form is precisely what 
it appears to be, and that our knowledge of it exactly con- 
forms to the reality. We know that it must, under all 
circumstances, be exactly what we perceive it to be. We 
thus derive from it a distinct conception ; we can make it 
an object of thought, and can form concerning it the most 
complicated processes of reasoning. When we see a blind 
person read with his fingers, we must be convinced that he 
has as definite a conception of the forms of letters as we 
ourselves have by sight. We thus learn that not only does 
this sense enable us to make large additions to our knowl- 
edge, but that it is really the original source of a great part 
of our knowledge of the world around us. Of its intrinsic 
importance we may form an opinion from the fact that there 
is no case on record in which a human being has been born 
without it. By it alone, as in the case of Laura Bridgman, 
we may learn our relations to the world around us : may 
be taught the use of language, and may even acquire the 
power of writing it with considerable accuracy. This sense 
is lost only in paralysis, and in those cases in which the 
individual, drawing near to dissolution, has no farther need 
of any of the organs of sense. 

REFERENCE. 
Reid's Inquiry, ^liap. 5, sections 1, 2. 



SECTION VIII. — THE SENSE OF SIGHT. 

The organ of vision is the eye. It is an optical instru- 
ment, of exquisite construction, adapted in the most perfect 



64 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 

manner to accomplish the purposes of its formation. At 
will, we can admit the light or surround ourselves with total 
darkness. As we frequently pass from darkness to light, 
the eye is provided with a curtain, by means of which the 
pupil is either expanded or contracted, so that no more light 
than is required falls upon the retina. We can turn the 
eyes in every direction. By them we can discern objects 
either gigantic or microscopic, within a few inches of us, 
or at the distance of several miles. It gives us instan- 
taneously a knowledge of the qualities of bodies, which 
could be discovered by the other senses only after a long 
and patient investigation, and of many qualities which, with- 
out this sense, could never be discovered at all. Although 
capable of such complicated action, and always in use ex- 
cept when we sleep, the eye is comparatively seldom liable 
to accident or disease. It is protected from ordinary vio- 
lence by the overhanging brows. The fine particles of dust 
which fall upon it are perpetually washed away by the com- 
bined action of the eyelids and the lachrymal gland. Its 
rapid and incessant change of position, by calling into ac- 
tion different portions of the optic nerve, preserves it from 
severe exhaustion. Thus it happens that a large portion of 
mankind pass through life without ever knowing that their 
eyes are even liable to disease. 

The manner in which the impression is produced upon 
the organ of vision has been fully explained by physiolo- 
gists. The human eye is a small globe, so constructed that 
the rays of light coming from a visible body which fall upon 
it, are formed into a small image upon its inner posterior 
Buiface. This image is inverted. The rays of light first 
fall upon the visible object, and are from it reflected upon 
the eye. Of course, where there is no light, that is, when 
no rays can be cither received or reflected, there can be no 
vision. 



THE INDIVIDUAL SENSES. 65 

Ovci the back part of the eye is spread out an expansion 
r>f the optic nerve, called the retina. Immediately behind 
this, is a thin membrane, on which is laid a black pigment 
for the absorption of the light producing the image. In 
order to produce distinct vision, this image must be accu- 
rately defined. Hence, in twilight, when the light is insuf- 
ficient, an object is but imperfectly seen. When, owing to 
slight malformation of the eye, as in near-sighted or in aged 
persons, the image is not accurately delineated on the retina, 
vision is also indistinct; nor can the infirmity be relieved 
until by artificial means we cause the rays of light to form 
a true image on the expansion of the optic nerve. If the 
nerve become paralyzed, vision ceases. If it be inflamed, 
vision is so intensely painful that the patient cannot, with- 
out severe suffering, bear the least glimmer of light. The 
nerves of vision do not proceed from each eye directly to the 
brain, but first meet at what is called the decussation of the 
optic nerve, where their fibres intermingle, after which they 
separate and enter the substance of the brain. What pur- 
pose is answered by an arrangement so different from that 
observed in the other nerves of sense, has not yet been dis- 
covered. 

When, under normal circumstances, the visual image ia 
formed on the retina, a mental state succeeds w r hich we call 
vision. What this is we all know by experience. The 
question, however, remains, Is sight a sensation or a per- 
ception? and, if a perception, is it like the sense of touch 
preceded by a sensation 1 Before proceeding further, let ua 
attempt to answer these questions. 

Is sight a sensation or a perception ? A sensation is a 
simple knowledge, a state of mind terminating in itself, 
imd, so far as our consciousness is concerned, having no 
original connection with anything external. Now. if merely 
the cognition of color is considered, w# must admit that it 
6* 



86 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 

resembles in many respects, the cognition of hearing. The 
notion or knowledge of red, for instance, is an affection of 
the mind, and wholly unlike the cause from which it pre 
ceeds. No one supposes that the rose has the simple knowl 
edge which we designate by the word red. And, moreover, 
this simple knowledge gives us not the most distant idea of 
its cause. Sight gives us no more knowledge of that qual- 
ity in bodies which produces in us the notion of color, than 
hearing- designates the size and form of the instrument 
which produces the sound to which we are listening, or the 
atmospheric change which precedes the clap of thunder at 
which we tremble. In this respect the act of seeing resem- 
bles a mere sensation. 

On the other hand, it is to be remarked, that, although 
the knowledge of color is a sensation, a subjective affection, 
yet we are so made as to refer this knowledge directly and 
immediately to the external object. When we reflect upon 
the subject we know that the notion of red is a spiritual 
aifection, and yet that affection seems to be a part of the 
rose. When we are conscious of an odor, we do not, so far 
as the sense of smelling is concerned, assign it to any ex- 
ternal location. When we hear a sound, so far as this sense 
is concerned, w r e do not determine the place of its origin. 
The music seems to float around and envelop us, like the 
atmosphere. But when we are sensible of a color, we see 
it in a determined locality, we see it now and there, and at 
once fix the limit of its existence. 

Here, however, it may be said, that in this respect the 
perception by sight is similar to that of touch ; that in 
touch we equally transfer our notion of fcrm to the object 
which we perceive. The cases, I admit, are similar, but I 
think by no means identical. When I feel of a cube, and 
obtain a knowledge of its form, it is obvious that the thought 
of my mind is not like the cube — that is, it is not S'uid, 



TTTE INDIVIDUAL SENSES. 61 

equiangular an<l equilateral. It is, nevertheless, a positive 
knowledge that such are the qualities of the cube. I know 
that the thought of my mind represents to me these quali- 
ties just as they are. They are the sufficient cause of that 
particular idea, and nothing else could have been the cause 
of it. It is a definite knowledge of a mode of the not me 
admitting of no intermediate question. When, however, 
I see a color, the case is quite dissimilar. My notion of 
color gives me no knowledge of its cause. I have by it no 
knowledge of a particular mode of the not me, which, of 
necessity, if it produce in me any knowledge, must produce 
precisely that of which I am conscious. My sense of sight 
does not inform me at all what color (objective) is. That 
the existence of light is necessary to it, all men know ; but 
what lighc is, in what manner it produces color, whether by 
rectilinear rays reflected from the object, or by a succession 
of waves of a universal, medium, is yet a matter of dispute 
among philosophers. In the case of sight, then, if the 
question be asked, what produces this knowledge, we can give 
no answer. In the case of touch, we answer at once, the 
form of a cube, — we all know what that form is, — and the 
subject admits of no farther discussion. 

I do not know whether I have made this distinctly ob- 
vious to others, or whether I have analyzed the act of 
vision accurately. I have, however, endeavored as well aa 
I am able to state the facts in the case as they appear to my 
Dwn consciousness. 

Is there in sight, as in touch, a sensation antecedent to 
perception, or a sensation which it is in our power to dis- 
tinguish from perception ? For myself, I have never been 
able to discover it. I place my hand, under different con- 
ditions, on a cube, and I am able to distinguish the sensation 
from the perception, and can make either of them, sepa- 
rately, a matter of thought. I can discover no such dis- 



58 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 

tinct states of mind in the act of vision. I open my eyes , 
I see a bock. The first thing of which I am conscious is 
the cognition of an external object. I am conscious of no 
intermediate or different mental state. I must, therefore, 
believe that none exists. It may be said that one has existed, 
but that, from long neglect, we have lost the power of ob 
Berving it. To this I reply, that we habitually neglect the 
sensation in the perception of touch, but, when it is pointed 
out to us, we easily recognize it. If it existed in the sense 
of seeing, I see no reason why we should not as easily ob- 
serve it. The simple fact seems to be, that, as soon as we 
are conscious of the knowledge of color, we are, at the same 
instant, conscious of the knowledge of the object in which 
the color seems to reside. We cannot separate the one 
from the other. 

The perception of an object as endowed with color is, 
however, in some respects, unlike the perception of an ob • 
ject as endowed with form. 

The perception by touch is fixed and definite, in all posi- 
tions remaining precisely the same. The perception by 
sight varies by every change of position. For instance, if 
a small cube is placed in my hands, I turn it over and feel 
of it on all sides, and it ever presents itself to me as the 
same figure. On the other hand, I look upon it with one of 
its faces directly before me, and it presents one appearance. 
I turn one of the angles towards me, and it presents another. 
I change its position a hundred times, and at every time it 
presents a different appearance. 

Again, the perception by touch is unaffected by distance, 
I feel of a cube, and I derive a clear knowledge of its form. 
I extend my arms to their utmost length, and the perception 
is the same. I think of it a mile off, and my notion of it 
does not ^ary. But it is not so with the perception of sight. 
I look at a cube at a distance of twelve inches from mj 



THE INDIVIDUAL SENSES. 69 

eyes, it has one magnitude. I remove it ten feet eff, an^ 
its apparent magnitude is ten times less. Its color is less 
vivid, and its outline less distinct. I remove it to the dis- 
tance of an hundred feet, and it is diminished to an indis- 
tinct speck. If I would represent it to another person, 1 
must represent it thus indistinctly. Hence the distinction 
made between tactual and visual form and magnitude. 

We have the means of associating -these two ideas together 
in a manner hereafter to be considered. We are able to 
translate the language of sight into the language of touch. 
This, however, would be unnecessary, were there not this 
difference in the two perceptions to which I have here re- 
ferred. 

If we observe the relation in which the senses stand to 
each other, we shall at once perceive the importance of 
sight. Smell and taste give us simple knowledges, without 
any cognition of the not me, and, also, I think, without the 
power of forming conceptions. Hearing suggests the not me, 
and gives us the power of forming conceptions; but it gives 
us no knowledge of any of the attributes of the sonorous 
body, save its power of awakening this sensation. Touch 
gives us an immediate and positive knowledge of the not 
me, and of all its primary attributes, and leaves upon the 
mind a most definite conception. Sight enables us to deter- 
mine most of the qualities revealed to us by touch, not only 
near at hand, but at great distances ; by the delicacy of its 
language, it enables us to discover many of the qualities re- 
vealed by the other senses; and, while performing all these 
functions, it is a source of most exquisite pleasure. 

That the conceptions of sight are more definite than those 
r reived by our sense of touch, I will not affirm. It is, 
however, certain that they arc muen more easily retained 
in the memory. When we recollect an external object, I 
think we much more readily recall the visual conception 



70 INTELLECT! AL PHILOSOPHY. 

thar. any other. I may feel of a sphere, and obtain a 
knowledge of its form and magnitude : but when I think of 
it, the visual appearance presents itself most readily to my 
mind. Almost all the conceptions of figurative language 
are derived from sight. The power of originating such con- 
ceptions is called imagination, or the power of forming in> 
ages. The fine arts, with the exception of music, address 
themselves wholly to this mode of perception. Almost all 
the other senses are, in some manner, tributary to it, and 
thus enable us to employ it in order to arrive at the most 
varied and distant forms of knowledge. 

Let us now proceed to inquire, what are the qualities of 
the external world which are cognized by means of this 
sense ? 

1. If the above remark be true, that we are so made aa 
to refer our visual conception to the external object, it will 
follow that we derive our cognition of externality as truly 
from this sense as from touch. Touch gives us a distinct 
and immediate notion of the existence and qualities of an 
external object. Sight gives us a conception of an unknown 
cause of a known effect ; it also teaches us that this cause is 
numerically distinct from ourselves, and assigns to it its 
position in space. 

The existence of this function of vision has frequently 
been denied, and it has been affirmed that, until aided by 
touch, sight gives us no idea of externality, any more than 
Bmell or hearing. The principal ground for this opinion is 
the authority of Cheselden,* who, long since, published an 
account of a young man whom he couched for cataract, and 
who, on restoration to sight, thought, at first, that every 
object touched his eyes. On this statement I would observe, 
that, on the first admission of light to the unnaturally sensi- 

• Philosophical Transactions, 1778, No. 402. 



THE INDIVIDUAL SENSES. 71 

tive retina, a sensation unlike to sight would be likely tc 
arise, which the patient might very probably designate by 
saying that the object touched his eyes. Every one, in 
passing from darkness into a strong light, has felt a sensa- 
tion of this kind, and he may remember that it is more 
nearly akin to touch than to sight. If we had before known 
everything by touch, we should naturally use this language 
in describing it. On this account, I think the case does not 
warrant the stress that has been laid upon it. But, secondly, 
if it were so, if he thought that the objects touched his 
eye, then, as Sir W. Hamilton has happily remarked, " still 
they appeared external to the eye," for it is evident that 
two things cannot seem to touch each other, unless, at the 
same time, also, they appear numerically distinct. That 
which is numerically distinct from the eye must be the non 
ego. Besides, the young of all animals, as soon as they 
open their eyes, recognize external objects as external, and, 
with evident design, move either towards or away from 
them. In fact, they use their eyes at first just as they use 
them afterwards. A new-born infant teaches us the same 
truth. Who ever saw a young child place its hand on its 
eyrs when an object was placed before it ? It reaches out 
its hand towards the object, without, it is true, any correct 
idea of distance, but with a correct conception of external- 
ity and direction. I think that all our observation upon 
our own use of this faculty must lead us to the same con- 
clusion. 

2. From this sense, exclusively, we obtain our knowledge 
of color. Of the nature of this cognition I have already 
had occasion to express my opinion. It is a simple knowl- 
edge in itself, an affection of the sentient being, which, how- 
ever, we naturally and immediately refer to the external 
object. Of this quality, thus recognized, the varieties are 
numerous, and they are indefinitely multiplied ly Un» cir- 



72 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 

cumstances of light and shade, distance and proximity, 
degree of illumination, and many others. Hence it is that 
external nature presents to us an exhaustless and ever-varied 
scene of beauty and sublimity. Every object in the world 
around us, which the hand of God has formed, is made to 
minister to our happiness. But this is only a small part of 
the benefit which we derive from this function of sight. 
Every change of color, and every variation in the degree of 
color, is indicative of some change which is originally cog- 
nized by some other sense. Hence it is that sight, which 
acts instantaneously, and cognizes its objects at large dis- 
tances, is enabled, by changes of visual appearance, to detect 
an immense number of qualities which vision alone could 
never h*ve discovered. All the senses become tributary to 
it, and it does the work of all. Of the manner in which 
this is done, we shall treat more particularly in the follow- 
ing section. 

3. To the qualities of external bodies, rendered cognizable 
by sight, we must undoubtedly add extension. If we refer 
our notion of color to an external object, I do not see how 
it is possible to exclude from our minds the knowledge that 
the colored object is extended. If we look upon anything 
colored, that color covers a definite portion of space. Let 
any one look upon a surface marked alternately by different 
colors, and the limitations of each are distinctly denned. 
IIence j also, arises the idea of form in one dimension. Wo 
can as well cognize a circle or square by sight as we can 
do it by touch. We read as rapidly by the eye as the bl:nd 
by their fingers. 

4. Lastly, we must now add solidity, or extension in 
three dimensions, to the perceptions given us by sight. 
Until quite lately, this power has been denied to the faculty 
of vision. It has been the generally received opinion that 
*ight gives us nothing but Uie different shades of color, 



THE INDIVIDUAL SENSES. 78 

represented on a plane surface, as we perceive them in a 
painting ; but that by touch we learn to associate the 
shading with the form, and thus indirectly learn to cognize 
solidity by the eye. This view was universally received, 
until the researches of Professor Wheatstone, of King's Col- 
lege, London, threw new light upon the whole subject. The 
brilliant discoveries of this philosopher have added a new 
function to the organ of vision, and demonstrated that, by 
the eye alone, we are enabled to cognize solidity as well as 
simple extension. He has shown that, in consequence of 
binocular vision, we are able to determine the form of 
bodies within a certain distance. The manner in which this 
is accomplished is as follows : It must be obvious to every 
one, that, inasmuch as the right and left eye occupy different 
positions in space, the images which an external object forms 
on the two eyes must be slightly dissimilar. I look upon 
an inks:and on the table before me, closing first my right 
eye and then the left. I can clearly discover a differ- 
ence between the right and left image. Now, it is this 
difference of figure in the two images that gives us the 
notion of solidity. This is proved by the stereoscope, an 
invention of Professor Wheatstone. This instrument is so 
constructed that we can see separately the image of an 
object formed on the right eye, and then that formed on tho 
left. 

When seen in this manner, each figure appears to us as a 
mere drawing on a plane surface. When now we look at 
them with both eyes, we do not perceive two plane drawings, 
but a distinct, and, I had almost said, palpable solid. It is 
however evident that this effect can be produced only when 
the body is at so small a distance, and of such a magnitude, 
that two images can be formed. If it be far off. so that 
the rays become parallel, and thus form the same image <m 
both eyes, no effect frum binocular vision is produced. AVo 
7 



74 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 

observe the truth of this law in our daily experience. Wnen 
we look upon a well-executed painting, every figure, when 
viewed from a proper position, appears to stand out from 
the canvas. It seems to us impossible that it should be a 
plane surface. But if we draw near, the illusion vanishes. 
When we arrive at the position at which the figures, if 3olid, 
would form different images on the two eyes, and no such 
difference exists, we know at once that the surface is a plane. 
If it be objected that persons with one eye are able to dis- 
tinguish solidity, it is replied that they do it less perfectly 
than others ; that they are obliged to do it by observing 
the shading of the surface, and that they are frequently seen 
to move the head in a horizontal direction rapidly, in order 
to form the different images on the same eye.* 

In consequence of this discovery, a very beautiful optical 
instrument has been invented, by which the effect of 
daguerreotype pictures has been much improved. A picture 
is taken separately for each eye. When these are looked 
at together, through glasses adapted to the purpose, we per- 
ceive only one figure ; but it has all the appearance of 
solidity. Daguerreotypes of statuary have thus all the 
effect of the original marble. 

The question has frequently been asked, How do we see 
objects single with two eyes ? To this question I do not 
know that any more satisfactory answer has been given than 
the plain statement of the fact that so we were created. It 
seems to me not half so strange as the fact that we see at 
all. But I would inquire, is it more remarkable that we 
receive a single impression from two organs of sight, than 
from any of our other senses ? All our nerves of sense are 
double. Every other sense has a right and a left nerve ; yet 
all the impressions made upon us from a single object are 

•Transactions of the Roya Society, vo*. 5G, p. 371. June 21, 1838. 



THE INDIVIUCAL SENSES. 76 

single Each ear receives an auditory impulse, yet we hea* 
but one sound. When we feel of an object, each hand 
receives a distinct impression, yet we perceive but one 
object. It does not seem strange to us that we do not hear 
two sounds with two ears, or that we do not feel two cubes 
when we hold one with our two hands. The case, however, 
seems to me precisely similar to that in which we look upon 
one object with our two eyes. The sense of sight, then, 
merely conforms to the general law by which all our senses 
are governed. It would seem, then, unnecessary to proceed 
farther than to refer the case of sight to the general law 
of the senses. The question thus resolves itself into the 
general one, How are single impressions made with double 
organs 1 To this I do not know that any answer has been 
either given or attempted. 

Again, it has been asked, How do we see objects erect, 
when the image on the retina is inverted? Dr. Reid 
answers this question by stating it as a general law that we 
see every object in the direction of the right line that 
passes from the picture of the object on the retina to the 
centre of the eye, " as the rays from the upper part of the 
object form the lower part of the image, and, vice versa, 
we see the upper part of the object with the lower part of 
the retina, and the contrary ; and thus we see the object as 
it is, that is, Ave see it erect." In how fir this relieves the 
difficulty, or carries us back to a moie general law, I will not 
pretend to determine. To me it does not seem to throw that 
light on the subject which seems obvious to others. I have 
thought that, possibly, this effect was in some way connected 
witli the decussation of the optic nerve. No nerves, except 
those of sight, unite before entering the brain, and in no 
other case is this peculiarity observed. May there not be 
loiue connection between the facts ! 

Persons who have been couched for cataract see objects 



76 IN1ELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHr/ 

erect as soon as their power of vision is restored. At least, 
Cheselden and other observers have never stated anything 
to the contrary. This could hardly have been the case if 
so striking a phenomenon had passed under their notice. 
To this there seems but one exception. Sir W. Hamilton 
quotes a case from Professor Leidenfrost, of Duisburg, 1793, 
in which the fact was otherwise. A young man. blind 
from birth, had reached his seventeenth year, when his sight 
was restored after an attack of ophthalmia. When he first 
saw men. they seemed to him inverted ; that is, their heads 
"were towards his feet ; and trees and other objects seemed 
to hold the same position. I am unable to account for 
this difference from ordinary experience. I would only 
remark, that we are always liable to err in reasoning from 
instances of this kind, because, when the condition of an 
organ is decidedly abnormal, it is impossible to say to what 
extent and in what direction the abnormal cause has been 
exerted. 

REFERENCES. 

Sense of sight — Reid's Inquiry, chap. 6. 

Sight the noblest of our senses, " " section 1. 

No sensation in sight, " " section 8. 

Relation of visual to real figure, " ** sections 23 and 7. 

Color a quality of body, " " sections 4 and 5. 

Parallel motion of the eyes, " " section 10. 

How we see objects erect, " •' sections 11 and 12. 

How we see objects single, " " section 13. 

We know not how the image on the retina causes vision, section 12> 

Carpenters Physiology, article sight. 

Cheselden's case — Phil. Transactions, 1728, No. 402. 

Wheatstone's paper, Phil. Trans., vol. 56, p. 371. 

Prof. Liede s .frost's case, Sir W. Hamilton — Reid, p. 168. 



ACQUIRED PERCEPTIONS. 77 



SECTION IX. — OF ACQUIRED PERCEPTIONS, OR THE INTER- 
CHANGEABLE USE OF THE SENSES. 

It has been already remarked that each of our senses 
furnishes us with a distinct species of knowledge. We 
cognize odors by smell, sounds by the ear, colors by the 
eye, and so of all the rest. Neither of the senses can be 
used in the place of the other. We can neither see with 
our ears, hear with our fingers, nor smell with our tongue. 
Such is manifestly the fact, if our senses be considered 
separately. 

But when the senses are considered collectively, we find 
that the above statement does not convey the whole truth. 
One sense seems to convey to us knowledge which could 
have been gained only by another. A single perception 
will frequently furnish us with knowledge, which we find, 
upon reflection, to have been originally given us by the 
action of another sense , dr by the combined action of several 
of the senses. Considered in this light, our whole sensual 
organism seems to be one complicated system, designed in 
the most rapid and convenient manner to make us ac- 
quainted with the external world. We find ourselves, in a 
thousand cases, using one sense for another, whenever we 
can do it with advantage ; and if by misfortune we are de- 
prived of any particular sense, it is surprising to observe 
how readily the remaining senses come to our aid, and enable 
us to cognize objects in a manner which, at first view, would 
seem utterly impossible. 

The process by which this effect is produced is the fol- 
lowing : We have already observed that the variety of 
impressions which may be received by several of our senses 
is beyond the power of computation. Who can estimate the 
infinite number of sounds which we are capable of hearing ; 
7* 



78 INTELLECTUAL PHILOJOPHY. 

or of color and shading which we are capable of seeing 
and of distinguishing from each other ? Now, we find that 
a quality cognized by one sense is, by the kind provision of 
our Creator, connected with some modification of a quality 
perceived by another sense. Observing this connection, we 
learn to associate the original with the secondary quality, 
and, from the observation of the one, to infer the existence of 
the other. For example, if I wish to learn whether a body 
is hard or soft, I employ the sense of touch. This is the 
sense originally given to me for the purpose of gaining 
this knowledge. I see before me a piece of polished marble, 
and a piece of velvet, of the same color. I feel of them 
both, and ascertain that the one is hard, and the other soft. 
But I also observe that the visual appearance of these two 
substances is dissimilar. I carefully note this difference. 
When I see the same objects again, I shall not be obliged 
to feel them ; I know, at a glance, not only the visual but 
the tactual character of each. I go farther ; I generalize 
this difference. I know that one visual appearance, where- 
ever it is seen, indicates hardness, and another softness. 
Hence, when we, for the first time, look upon a substance,- 
we commonly form an opinion of its hardness or softness 
from its peculiarity of color. Hence, also, we frequently 
use the language of one sense for that of another. We say 
of a surface that it looks hard or it looks soft. So paint- 
ers, having observed that warm weather in summer is accom- 
panied by a particular appearance of the sky, associate the 
Janguage of feeling with that of sight, and speak of a warm 
sky, of wirm or of cold coloring, and of other distinctions 
of a similar character. 

Illustrations of acquired perceptions are presenting them- 
eelves to us every day, in the ordinary experience of life. 
The apothecary learns how to distinguish medicines by their 
Bmell as accurately as by their taste. The mineralogist \y 



ACQUIRED PERCEPTIONS. 79 

breathing upon a mineral, and observing its smell, will know 
in an instant whether it is or is not argillaceous. Or 
again, he will distinguish a calcareous from a magnesian 
mineral by the touch : or he will determine the character 
of another by its fracture. If a grocer wishes to know 
whether a cask is full or empty he does not look into it, 
but merely strikes upon it, and ascertains the fact in an 
instant by sound. A mason who wishes to know if a wall 
in a particular spot is solid, does not pull it down, tut 
strikes it with his hammer. In the same way we determine 
whether an object before us is made of wood, or metal, or 
stone. When these indications are closely observed, the 
accuracy of the judgments to which they lead is frequently 
very remarkable. It is said that an Indian hunter, on the 
prairies, by placing his ear on the ground, will discover the 
approach of an enemy long before he can be recognized by 
the eye, and will distinguish a herd of buffaloes from a troop 
of dragoons with unerring certainty. We are told that the 
Arabs will tell the tribe to which a passer-by belongs, by the 
print of his foot in the sand, and by the track of a hare 
will know whether it be a male or a female. 

Inasmuch, however, as our visual perceptions are more 
varied and more rapid than those of our other senses, and 
as we, by the eye, cognize objects at great distances, the 
greater part of our acquired perceptions are referred to this 
sense. We judge of the qualities of almost all the sub- 
stances in daily use by the eye alone. We continually 
determine distance and magnitude by the eye. The manner 
in which this is done is worthy of special notice. It is well 
known that, as an object recedes from us, its visual appear- 
ance presents several observable changes. First, its magni- 
tude diminishes. Secondly, its color becomes dim and misty. 
Thirdly, its outline becomes indistinct: and, fourthly as kfl 
distance increases, the number of intervening objects 



SO INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 

becomes greater. It is by the observation of these change! 
that we determine whether objects are receding from, or 
advancing towards us. In the same manner, by comparing 
these indications, we judge of the distance and magnitude 
of any object. In every case of this kind we go through a 
complicated act of judgment ; yet, from habit, we do it so 
rapidly, that we should hardly be aware of it but from the 
mistakes which we occasionally commit. For instance ; I 
see an object presenting a certain dimness of color, of a 
certain indistinctness of outline, and of a given visual mag- 
nitude, and observe various objects intervening between it 
and me. This is all that the sense of sight gives me. I 
immediately judge it to be a man of ordinary size, half a 
mile off; and my judgments are so generally accurate, that 
I am surprised if I find myself in error. 

When, however, any one of these conditions is changed 
we are liable to be deceived. This is commonly the case 
when objects are seen through a mist. The deception here 
is not occasioned, as is generally supposed, by refraction 
of the rays of light, causing the object to seem' larger. 
The object really seems to us of the proper size. The 
mist, however, renders the color and the outline indistinct, 
and we suppose the object to be at a much greater distance 
than it is. The body has the magnitude belonging to a 
quarter of a mile in distance, with the indistinctness of half 
a mile. With this magnitude, at the latter distance, it would, 
of course, seem to us much larger than it actually is 
An incident, illustrative of this fact, once occurred to the 
author. lie was, early in the morning, in a dense fog, 
sailing through the harbor of Newport, and passed near the 
wharf of Fort Adams. He observed on the wharf* some very 
tall men, and mentioned their remarkable size to the friends 
who accompanied him. Presently he was struck with their 
behavior. They were jumping and playing like children, 



ACQUIRED PERCEPT. ONS. 8i 

in a mannei that seemed to him wholly unaccountable. 
Presently, as the sun dispersed the fog. he found himself 
close to the wharf, and these gigantic men dwindled down 
to a company of playful little boys, who were amusing 
themselves in childish gambols. 

In the same manner we mistake if the atmosphere is 
more transparent than that to which we are accustomed. 
Bishop Berkeley, I think, remarks that English travellers 
in Italy, unaccustomed to the clear sky of southern Europe, 
were liable to continual misjudgment respecting the distance 
of objects seen in the horizon. The clearness of the color, 
and the distinctness of the outline, led them to suppose 
castles, mountains, &c, much nearer than they really were. 
In the same manner, when there are no intervening objects, 
we frequently find our judgments at fault. Thus, in looking 
over a sheet of water, we always underrate the distance. 
When we throw a stone at an object in the water, we always 
find that our eye has deceived us, and the stone falls far 
short of the mark. For the same reason, objects seen on the 
shore from the water seem much less than their natural 
size. The fact is, they appear of the magnitude which 
belongs to the distance, but we suppose the distance less 
than it is ; and, associating this magnitude with diminished 
distance, they appear to us less than they really are. 

In order to form these judgments correctly, one of these 
elements must be fixed. From this w r e learn to institute a 
comparison, and then an accurate opinion is formed. If we 
have the magnitude of the object, the change in its color 
and outline teaches us its distance. If we know its distance, 
we can judge of its magnitude. Hence, painters, in order 
to give us a correct notion of an object which they repre- 
sent, always place in its vicinity something with whose real 
magnitude we arc familiar. Thus, if I drew a pyramid, it 
might be difficult to determine whether 1 intended to repre- 



S2 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 

gent it as large or small. If, however, I drew an Arab 
standing by his camel at the foot of it, my intention would 
at once become apparent. Every one knows the size of a 
camel, and from this he would judge of the magnitude of 
the pyramid. 

The benefits which we derive from this interchangeable 
use of the senses are innumerable. We are thus enabled 
to transfer to one sense the cognitions which belong to 
another, always using that which we can employ with the 
greatest rapidity and convenience. Our whole sensitive 
organism is thus capable of being used for almost every 
form of cognition. Very much of our early education, 
especially the education which enables us to perform any 
art, consists in the acquisition of these secondary percep- 
tions. It is thus that the physician, from symptoms, or 
external indications which another person would not observe, 
is enabled to discover the locality, the nature, and the pro- 
gress of disease, and frequently to foretell the result with 
unerring accuracy. 

The benefit of this arrangement is specially evident when 
we are unfortunately deprived of any one of our senses. 
Our acquired perceptions are then almost indefinitely mul- 
tiplied, and the knowledge which we derive from our re- 
maining senses is sometimes so great as to appear almost 
incredible. Thus, the blind, by paying strict attention to 
the indications derived from touch and hearing, acquire an 
accuracy of judgment, respecting things known to others by 
Bight alone, which greatly surprises us. It is said that they 
can learn to determine, with great accuracy, the number of 
persons in a room by observing the sound of a speaker's 
voice, and that, by striking on the floor, they will form a 
very correct opinion as to the size of an apartment. Dr. 
Abercrombie mentions two blind men who were remark- 
ably good judges of horses. One of then: discovered, on 



ACQUIRED PERCEPTIONS. 83 

% particular occasion, that a horse was blind by cleerving 
the manner in which he placed his feet upon the ground 
when in motion, although the fact had not been noticed by 
any other person of the company. Another discovered that 
a horse was blind of one eye, by observing that the temper- 
ature of the eyes was different. On the other hand, the 
deaf acquire great skill in judging of the qualities of bodies 
by touch and sight, They will learn to understand a 
speaker by the motion of his lips, and to interpret the 
minutest shades of emotion by the changes in the counte- 
nance. When both sight and hearing are denied, a large 
amount of knowledge may be acquired by smell and feeling. 
Persons in this unfortunate condition have been known to 
select their own clothes, out of a pile of clean linen, by smell. 
The most remarkable instance on record of the education of 
a person under these circumstances, is found in the case of 
Laura Bridgman, who has been for several years under the 
care of Dr. Samuel G. Howe, of the Massachusetts Asylum 
for the Blind. She has from infancy been deprived both of 
hearing and sight. She has, nevertheless, been taught the 
alphabet for the blind ; she converses rapidly with her 
fingers, writes very intelligibly, and uses the language 
which designates the qualities of color and sound with con- 
siderable accuracy, knows her friends and instructors, and 
feels for them every sentiment of gratitude and affection. 

It will readily occur to every one that great use may be 
made of acquired perceptions in the practice of the various 
arts and professions. We thus are enabled to determine 
facts and form judgments which would otherwise be impos- 
sible. An illustration of this kind presents itself in the 
use of the stethoscope, a small ear-trumpet, by means of 
which physicians listen to the sound made by the lungs in 
breathing, and by the heart in pulsation. A few years 
Bince. it was observed that these sounds varied with the eon 



84 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 

dition of these organs in health and in disease. This obser- 
vation led to a very impoitant result. First, the sound 
made by the lungs in health was distinctly ascertained. 
Then the variations from it were noticed. If the disease 
terminated in death, the condition of the lungs was ascer- 
tained by inspection. The sound was thus associated with 
tne particular disease which occasioned it. This mode of 
observation w r as continued until almost every form of disease 
in the chest was recognized and made to speak an audible 
language. When this language has been learned by one 
man, it can be taught to another ; and thus this important 
means of acquiring knowledge has become common to phy- 
sicians. Practitioners, who have paid sufficient attention to 
this subject, and who are endowed with great delicacy of 
hearing, have been able to discover with remarkable ac- 
curacy the condition of the organs of the chest, the form of 
disease under which the patient has been laboring, and even 
to mark out on the surface the precise portion of the lunga 
which was suffering from inflammation. 

The manner in which our acquired perceptions may be 
improved is manifestly as follows. In the first place, w r e 
learn to observe with the greatest accuracy the minutest 
differences in the impressions made upon our organs of 
sense. We are thus enabled to discover the slightest change 
of color or of outline, the minutest differences in hardness, 
smoothness or temperature, and the almost imperceptible 
variations in sound and interval. The nicer our d ; ?cri mi- 
nation in these respects becomes, the wider is the field of 
observation open to discovery. In this respect, much must 
depend upon the original perfection of the organs themselves : 
but that more depends upon careful cultivation, is evident 
from the fact that whole tribes of savages, of by nc means 
delicate organization, .attain to remarkable accuracy m the 
use of their organs of sense. 



ACQUIRED PERCEPTIONS. 8& 

Secondly, we must learn to associate with each variation 
observed by one sense, the quality or condition discovered 
by another sense. In this manner we acquire the language 
of nature, and are enabled to interpret it for our own bene- 
fit and the benefit of others. We are thus able to form 
judgments which, to the uninitiated, seem like the result of 
magic. Thus, distinctness and indistinctness of color and 
outline teach us the magnitude and distance of objects many 
miles off. Thus the Indian, by observing minute differ- 
ences of sound, will form an accurate judgment undei 
circumstances which would leave other men wholly in dark- 
ness. 

The physician, by placing his ear on the chest of his 
patient, can tell whether the organs within are healthy or 
diseased, and can thus the better employ such m/\ans of 
cure as will accomplish the result which he proposes. 

It is hardly necessary to remark that the progress of 
the arts enables us to cultivate our acquired perceptions 
with greater success. The microscope and the telescope 
have greatly increased our power in this respect. Instru- 
ments for observing infinitesimal changes in temperature 
will probably lead to similar results. The tendency of 
science is in this direction, and it will, without doubt, lead 
to a rich harvest of discovery. 

Before closing this section, it is proper to remark thart 
in the use of acquired perceptions we are liable to form 
false judgments, and then to complain that our senses have 
deceived us. I once saw, on a door-post, the painting of 
a key hanging on a nail, and it was so well executed that 
I was not aware of the deception until I attempted to take 
it down. Here it might be said that my senses deceived 
me, but such was not the tact. My eyes testified truly to 
all that they promised to make known. They testified to a 
certain color and shading. This QY'deuce ww in its nature 
8 



86 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 

ambiguous tor the effect might be produced either by a 
painting or by a real key. Without sufficient attention, .1 
inferred that it was a key, when I ought to have examined 
it more carefully. But mj senses did not deceive me, for 
the eye testified truly, and when I applied to another sense, 
it enabled me to form a true judgment. I was misled by 
my own negligence, and not by any defect in my senses. I 
ought, perhaps, to add that the deception in this case was 
aided by my companion, who directed my attention to the 
door, and asked me to hand him the key that he might open 
it. Had it not been for this circumstance, I should probably 
have discovered the truth from the effect of binocular vision 
It will be found that all the cases which are commonly as 
cribed to deception of the senses are of the same character 
as that to which I have here referred. Our senses always 
testify truly, but we sometimes deceive ourselves by the 
inference which we draw from their evidence. The defect 
resides in our inference, and not in our senses, for it is by 
the use of our senses, alone, that we are enabled to correct 
the error into which we have fallen by our own inadver- 
tence. 

REFERENCES. 

Original and acquired perceptions — Reid's Inquiry, chap. 6, sec. 20— 
23. Abercrombie, Part n., sec. 1. 

Improvement of the senses — Reid, Essays on the Intellectual Powers. 
Essay 2, sec. 21. 



SECTION X. — OF THE NATURE OF THE KNOWLEDGE WHICH 
WE ACQUIRE BY THE PERCEPTIVE POWERS. 

Having, in the preceding sections, treated of the manner 
*n which our knowledge of the external world is acquired 



QUALITIES OF BODIES. 87 

i propose, in the present section, to offer some suggestions 
on the nature of this knowledge. 

1. The knowledge which we acquire by perceptior 
is always of individuals. If we see several trees, we see 
them not as a class, but as separate and distinct objects 
of perception. If we see several men, as John, James. 
Edward, we see each one as a distinct individual. The 
same remark applies to the acts which we observe. We see 
John strike James ; that is, we see a particular individual 
perform a particular act. We thus see, that while, from 
the knowledge gained by the perceptive faculties, we subse- 
quently form genera and species, yet, without the aid of 
some other powers of the mind, to form genera and species 
would be impossible. Our several items of knowledge 
would be like separate grains of sand, without cohesion and 
without affinity. . 

2. The knowledge derived from the perceptive powers 
is always knowledge of the concrete. When we perceive a 
body, we do not cognize the color, figure, temperature, etc., 
each as an abstract quality, and then afterwards unite them 
in one conception ; but we perceive a body, colored, of such 
a figure and temperature ; that is, a body in which all these 
qualities are united. The first impression made upon us is 
the cognition of an external object possessing all these 
qualities ; or, at least, so many as are cognizable by 
the senses which are at the time directed towards them. 
We have the power of separating these qualities, in thought, 
the one from the other, and of making each of them a dis- 
tinct object of attention. This, however, is the function of 
n faculty of the mind to be treated of hereafter. 

3. Of primary and secondary qualities. 

It has been already stated that our knowledge is of qual- 
ities, not of essences. We do not cognize the objects around 
us absolutely, we cognize them as possessed of certain means 



88 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 

of affecting us, and thus giving us notice of the modes of 
their existence. 

The qualities of matter have, of old, been divided into 
two classes, which, at a later period, have been denominated 
primary and secondary. The primary qualities are those 
which, by necessity, enter into our notion of matter ; which 
we must conceive of as belonging to body, as soon as wa 
conceive of body at all. Such are extension, divisibility, 
magnitude, figure, solidity, and mobility. We cannot think 
of matter, without involving these qualities in our very 
notion of it. If we conceive of matter as the only thing 
created, before any sentient being was created to cognize it, 
we think of it as possessing all these qualities in as perfect 
a manner as at present. 

The secondary qualities are those which are not necessary 
to our conception of matter as matter, yet which give it 
the power of variously affecting us as sentient beings pos- 
sessed of such or such an organism. Such are smell, 
taste, sound, color, hardness, softness, and many others. 
These might all be absent, or wholly unrecognized, and yet 
our idea of matter as matter would be definite and precise. 
They are only cognized by means of their appropriate media. 
If the media had not been created, no conception of them 
could ever have been formed. We cognize them only by 
means of our peculiar organism. Had this organism been 
created of a different character, these qualities could never 
have been known. Of the primary qualities themselves wo 
form a definite idea; we know that they are what they 
poem to U3 to be. Of the secondary qualities, in themselves, 
we know nothing more than this, that some occult cause 
possesses the power of affecting us by means of our senses in 
this or that manner, or of creating in us such or such 
cognitions. - 

These secondary qualities have been, more lately, very 



QUALITIES OF BO )IES. 89 

properly divided into two classes. First, those which we 
CDgniz.3 by their relation to our own organism : and, sec- 
ondly, those which we cognize by their relations to other 
bodies. Thus, malleability, ductility, and various other 
qualities, are cognized by the action of various metals on 
each other. Gold and steel are, to our organism, equally 
unnialleable ; that is, we can make no impression upon either 
by voluntary effort. But when gold is brought into forcible 
contact with steel, its quality becomes manifest. The same 
is true of brittleness, and various other qualities. 

Sir William Hamilton, after examining this subject with 
unsurpassed acuteness, has suggested another classification of 
the qualities of matter. It will be found, treated of in full 
in note D to his edition of the works of Dr. Reid. To pur- 
sue the subject at length, would be impossible within the limits 
that must be assigned to the present work. I shall attempt 
no more than to present a condensed view of some of the 
most important elements of his classification. 

Sir William Hamilton divides the qualities of matter into 
three classes. First, primary or objective ; second, secundo- 
primary or subjecto-objective ; and third, secondary or sub- 
jective qualities. The primary are objective, not subjective, 
percepts proper, not sensations proper ■ the secundo-primary 
are both objective and subjective percepts proper and sensa- 
tions proper; the secondary are subjective, not objective, 
sensations proper, not percepts proper. 

1. Of the primary qualities. 

These are all deducible from two elementary ideas. We 
are unable to conceive of a body except, first, av occupying 
space, and second, as contained in space. Froiac the first of 
these follow, by necessary explication, extension divisibility, 
size, density or rarity, and figure ; from the second are 
explicated incompressrt>ility Lbsolute, mobility, situation. 

2. The secundo-primary. 

8* 



90 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 

These have two phases, both immediately apprehended 
u On their primary or objective phasis, they manifest them* 
selves as degrees of resistance opposed to our locomotive 
energy ; on their secondary or subjective phasis, as modes 
of resistance, a presence affecting our sentient organism." 
" Considered physically, or in an objective relation, they are 
to be reduced tc classes corresponding to the different 
sources, in external nature, from which resistance or pressuro 
springs. These sources are three. 

I. Co-attraction. II. Repulsion. III. Inertia. 

From co-attraction result gravity and cohesion. 

From gravity result heavy and light. 

From cohesion follow, 1. Hard and soft ; 2. Firm and 
fluid ; 3. Viscid and friable ; 4. Tough and brittle ; 5. 
Rigid and flexible ; 6. Fissile and infissile ; 7. Ductile 
and inductile ; 8. Retractile and irretractile ; 9. Rough 
and smooth ; 10. Slippery and tenacious. 

From repulsion are evolved, 1. Compressible and incom- 
pressible ; 2. Resilient and irresilient. 

From inertia are evolved, Movable and ImmoTable. 

3. The secondary qualities. 

"These are not, in propriety, qualities of bodies at all. 
As apprehended, they are only subjective affections, and 
belong only to bodies in so far as these are supposed fur- 
nished with the powers capable of specifically determining 
the various parts of our nervous apparatus to the partic- 
ular action, or rather passion, of which they are susceptible; 
which determined action or passion is the quality of which 
we are immediately cognizant ; the external concause of 
that internal effect remaining to the perception altogether 
unknown/' 

" Of the secondary qualities," that is, those phenomena] 
affections determined in our sentient organism by the agency 
of external bodies, " there are various kinds; the variety 



QUALITIES OF BODIES. 91 

principally depending on the differences of the different 
parts of our nervous apparatus. Such are the proper sensi- 
sibles, the idiopathic affections of our several organs of sense,- 
as color, sound, flavor, savor, and tactual sensation ; such 
are the feelings from heat, electricity, galvanism, etc., and 
the muscular and cutaneous sensations which accompany tha 
perception of the secundo-primary qualities. Such, though 
les3 directly the result of foreign causes, are titillation, 
sneezing, horripilation, shuddering, the feeling of what is 
called setting the teeth on edge, etc. etc. Such, in fine, 
are all the various sensations of bodily pleasure and pain, 
determined by the action of external stimuli." 
Concerning these in general, it may be remarked, 

1. " The primary are qualities, only as we conceive them 
to distinguish body from not-body ; they are the attributes 
of body as body, corporis ut corpus. The secondary and 
secundo-primary are more properly denominated qualities, 
for they discriminate body from body. They are the attri- 
butes of body, as this or that kind of body, corporis ut tale 
corpus." 

2. " The primary arise from the universal relations of 
body to itself; the secundo-primary, from the general rela- 
tions of this body to that ; the secondary, from the special 
relations of this kind of body to this or that kind of sentient 
organism. 

3. " Under the primary we apprehend the modes of the 
non ego ; under the secundo-primary we apprehend the 
modes both of the ego and the non ego ; under the second- 
ary we apprehend modes of the ego, and infer modes of the 
non ego. 

4. " The primary are apprehended as they are in bodies; 
the secondary, as they are in us ; the secundo-primary, ai 
they are in bodies and as the}' are in us. 

5. " The terms designating primary qualities are univocalj 



92 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 

marking out one quality ; those designating the secundo-pri 

mary and secondary are equivocal, denoting both a mode of 

existence in bodies and a mode of affection in our organism.' 

Of these qualities, in particular, considered as in bodies, 

1. " The primary are the qualities of a body in relation 
to our organism as a body simply ; the secundo-primary are 
the qualities of a body in relation to our organism as a pro- 
pelling, resisting, cohesive body ; the secondary are the 
qualities of body in relation to our organism as an idiopath- 
ically excitable and sentient body. 

2. " The primary are known immediately in themselves; 
the secundo-primary, both immediately in themselves and 
mediately in their effects on us ; the secondary, only medi- 
ately in their effects on us. 

3. " The primary are apprehended objects'; the secondary, 
inferred powers ; the secundo-primary, both apprehended 
objects and inferred powers. 

4. " The primary are conceived as necessary and perceived 
as actual ; the secundo-primary are perceived and conceived 
as actual ; the secondary are inferred and conceived as pos- 
sible. 

5. "The primary may be roundly characterized as mathe- 
matical ; the secundo-primary, as mechanical ; the secondary, 
as physiological." 

Of these qualities, considered as cognitions, 

1. " We are conscious as objects, in the primary qualities, 
of the modes of the not-self; in the secondary, of the modes 
of a self; in the secundo-primary, of the modes of a self and 
a not-self, at once. 

2. " Using the terms strictly, the apprehensions of the 
primary are perceptions, not sensations ; of the secondary, 
sensations, not perceptions ; of secundo-primary, sensations 
and perceptions together. 

3. "In the primary there is thus no concomitant secon J- 



QUALITIES OF tfOi^IES. 93 

ary quality ; in the secondary, no conooi* it<«n* primary 
quality ; in the secundo-primary, a secondary and quasi- 
primary quality accompany each other. 

4. " In the apprehension of the primary, there is i*o sub- 
ject-object determined by the object-object ; in the securdo- 
primary, there is a subject-object determined by the object- 
object; in the secondary, the subject-object is the only 
object of immediate cognition." 

I have not, in the above quotations, inserted all the acute 
and valuable distinctions of our author. I have selected 
those only which seemed to me the most important, and 
which discriminate most clearly the characteristic elements 
of these modes of cognition. For a more extended view of 
the subject I must refer the reader to the work itself, 
w T here he will find every distinction wrought out with a 
power of metaphysical analysis which has never been sur- 
passed. 

In regard to Sir William's classification, if I may hazard 
an opinion, I think that his distinctions are rendered obvi- 
ous and beyond dispute. Whether his classification includes 
all the secundo-primary qualities, I am by no means certain. 
In so far as these qualities are apprehended by their effects 
on our organism, his classification appears exhaustive. But 
what shall we say of that class of qualities which arise from 
the relations of insentient bodies to each other, as malleabil- 
ity, chemical affinity, and various others? These are not 
known by any impression on our organism, as a propelling, 
resisting, cohesive body. They are not primary qualities. 
They are not cognized by our idiopathic sentient organism. 
They must be secundo-primary, but I think are not included 
in our author's classification. 

4. Leaving now the subject of primary and secondary qual- 
ities,, I proceed to remark, that the knowledge derived from 



94 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 

perception is truly knowledge ; that is, the evidence of oui 
senses is worthy of belief. 

Thus, I open my eyes, and I perceive before me a book 
I put forth my hands, and feel of it. My percf ptions per- 
fectly coincide. They both testify to the existence of an 
external object, numerically distinct from myself, of such a 
magnitude, form, situation. I am conscious of a state of 
mind which I call perception; and of that state of mind one 
of the elements is an unalterable conviction that the object 
exists now and here, just as I perceive it. This conviction 
is a necessary part of my state of mind, if, indeed, it be 
not the state of mind itself. This conscious perception is 
to me the knowledge that this book exists. If I am asked 
why I believe thus, or have this conviction, I can give no 
other account of it than tha/t I am so made It is a cogni- 
tion given me in virtue of my creation. If I am asked tc 
prove it, I must plead my inability to do so. I can prove 
no proposition except by some other proposition of higher 
authority. But there is no proposition of higher authority 
than this cognition given me by my Creator, who made me 
so that, under certain conditions, I cannot choose but have 
it. If I am asked to prove that I exist, I am unable to do 
it for the same reason, namely, that I have no more evident 
proposition which can be used as a medium of proof. I am 
so made that the existence of an external world is revealed 
to me at the same time and just as obtrusively as my own 
existence. By the constitution of my mind, the one fact 
is as clearly revealed to me as the other. 

But this subject is capable of more extended illustration 
and explication. 

1. "Our cognitions, it is evident, are not all at second 
hand." Demonstration must at last rest upon propositions 
which carry their own evidence, and necessitate their own 
admission. Were it otherwise, were there no truths which 



validity of perception. 25 

revealed themselves to the human mind, all proof wjuld 
oe nugatory ; it would be a succession of argument:*, each 
one resting on something yet to be proved. Some truth 
must then be given to us in our creation as intelligent be- 
ings, on which we may found our reasoning, and from which 
all demonstration must proceed. 

If it be asked, how do these prima?, y cognitions assure us 
of their truth and certify us of their verity, the only answer ia 
that they are results of our mental constitution. As soon 
as a human mind apprehends them, without argument or 
proof, it immediately knows them to be true. The only 
answer we can give to him who asks us a reason of these 
beliefs is, that we are so made, we are created to believe 
them. To suppose their falsehood, is to suppose that we are 
created thus simply in order that we may be deceived. 
And as, besides this, it is upon these beliefs that all subse- 
quent knowledge is founded, if we deny them, all knowl- 
edge is a delusion, and truth and falsehood are unmeaning 
terms. This, surely, without any proof, cannot be asserted ; 
and, hence, I think it must be conceded that we must in the 
first instance receive these beliefs as true, until they are 
shown to be false, and just in so far as they are shown to be 
false.' That we do thus by the constitution of our nature 
believe in the testimony of our senses, that we do thus uni- 
versally admit it, is, I think, beyond controversy. It is, 
therefore, to be believed until it is shown to be unfounded. 

But it may possibly be denied that this belief is one of 
those given us by our creation, or one of the first truths 
revealed to the common sense of man by virtue of his intel- 
lectual constitution. What, then, ore the characteristics by 
which these truths may be known ? 

Sir W. Hamilton reduces these characteristics to the foui 
following : 

1. They are incomprehensible. " A conviction is in 



96 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 

comprehensible when there is merely given us in conscious 
ness that its object is, and when we are unable to compre- 
hend, through a higher notion or belief, why or how it is. 
"When we are able to comprehend why or how a thing is, 
the belief of the existence of that thing is not a primary 
datum of consciousness, but a subsumption under the condi- 
tion or belief which affords its reason." 

2. They are simple. "It is manifest that if a cogni- 
tion or belief be made up of, and can be explicated into, a 
plurality of cognitions or beliefs, that, as compound, it can- 
not be original." 

3. They are necessary and universal " If necessary, 
they must, of course, be universal. The necessity here 
spoken of is of two kinds. The first kind is when we can- 
not construe it to our minds that the deliverance of con- 
sciousness is not true, or when the opposite of the assertion 
is unthinkable. Thus the proposition that a part is greater 
than the whole, or that two straight lines can at the same 
time be parallel and at right angles in the same plane, is 
unthinkable. There is another necessity, however, which 
is not unthinkable, when the deliverance of consciousness 
may be false, but when, at the same time, we cannot but 
admit that it is of such or such an import. This is the case 
in contingent truths, or what may be called matters of fact. 
In this case, the thing is not conceived as absolutely impos- 
sible, but impossible under the present constitution of things, 
or we being as we are. Thus, I can theoretically suppose 
that the external object of which I am conscious in percep- 
tion may be in reality nothing but a mode of mind, or self. 
I am unable, however, to think that consciousness does no* 
compel me to regard it as external, as a mode of matter of 
not self. Such being the case, I cannot practically belie vo 
the supposition which I am able speculatively to maintain; 
for I cannot believe this supposition without believing that 



VALIDITY OF PERCEPTION. 97 

the last ground of all belief is not to be believed, which is 
self-contradictory. 

4. •Their comparative evidence and certainty. "These 
truths are so clear and obvious that nothing more clear or 
obvious can be conceived by which to prove them." Ac- 
cording to Buffier, they " are so clear, that if we attempt to 
pr^ve or disprove them, this can be done only by proposi- 
tions which are manifestly neither more evident nor moro 
certain." 

Now, so far as I can perceive, all these characteristics 
belong to the deliverance of consciousness in perception. 
They are incomprehensible, simple, practically necessary, 
and of such clearness of manifestation that they can neither 
be proved nor disproved by anything more evident. We are 
then entitled to consider them 'first truths, or truths revealed 
to man in the constitution of his nature. If such deliver- 
•nces are not to be believed, then nothing is to be believed, 
and all knowledge is essentially impossible. 

But the subject may be finally considered from another 
point of view. 

The data of consciousness may be considered as two-fold. 

1. "As apprehended facts or actual manifestations." As 
when I say, I see a tree, or I feel a cube, there is an actual 
manifestation to me that I am in that particular state of 
mind described by these words. Consciousness reveals to 
me that fact as the present state of my mind. 

2. " These deliverances of consciousness may be consid- 
ered as testimonies to the truth of facts beyond their own 
phenomenal reality." These acts of consciousness are the 
testimonies to the fact that that tree and that cube are now 
existing. It is, however, to be observed that the testimony 
to the existence of this state of mind, and to the exist nice 
of the tree which this state of mind cognizes, is given ma 
in the Bainc act. 

8 



% INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 

The truth of this first testimony of consciousness is ad* 
initted by all. When consciousness testifies tha' I am now 
in a mental state which I call perception, it cannot be 
doubted that such is the fact. The doubt, in this case, ia 
clearly suicidal. The state of mind caxled perception is at- 
tested by consciousness. The state which I call doubting 
is attested by the same consciousness. If, then, conscious • 
ness is not to be believed when it testifies to perception, 
neither is it to be believed when it testifies to doubting. So 
that, if a man doubts whether he is really in the state of 
mind called perception, he must equally doubt whether he 
is in the state of mind which he calls doubting. He musr 
doubt whether he doubts, just as much as he doubts whether 
he perceives, meaning, by this term, a mere subjective act, 
a state of the thinking subject. 

There may, however, be without absurdity a doubt as to the 
other part of the act ; that is, to the truth of this testimony 
as to something numerically different from the subject. It 
may be said that this is merely a subjective state of the mind 
itself; that it is merely a form of the ego produced by the 
action of some subjective cause, and that it gives us no 
knowledge of anything external. 

To this objection it may be answered, 

1. u It cannot but be acknowledged that the veracity of 
consciousness must, at least in the first instance, be conceded. 
Neganti incumbit probatio. Nature is not gratuitously to 
be assumed to work, not only in vain, but in counteraction 
of herself. Our faculty of knowledge is not, without a 
ground, to be supposed an instrument of illusion. Man, 
unless the melancholy fact be nroved, is not to be held 
organized for the attainment and actuated by the love of 
truth, only to become the dupe and victim of a perfidious 
Creator." 

2. " But, granting that these convictions are at the be- 



VALIDITY OF PERCEPTION. 99 

ginning to be received as true, it is yet competent to attempt 
to prove t. em false, and thus correct an error into which 
we have been led by our constitution. But how shall this 
be done ] As the ultimate grounds of knowledge, these 
convictions cannot be redargued from any higher knowledge ; 
and as derivative beliefs they are paramount in certainty to 
every derivative knowledge. They cannot, therefore, be 
disproved by knowledge derived from any other source, far 
the most certain knowledge which we possess must rest upon 
the same foundation as the testimony of our own con- 
sciousness." 

3. " If, then, these convictions be disproved, they must 
be disproved by themselves. This can be done only by one 
of two methods. First, it must be shown that these pri- 
mary data are directly and immediately contradictory of 
themselves." " They are many, they are in authority co- 
ordinate, and their testimony is clear and precise." Now, 
if this testimony is intellectually or in fact, at variance, then 
we must conclude either that one or the other, or both, tes- 
timonies are false. Or, secondly, it must be proved "that 
they are mediately or indirectly contradictory, inasmuch 
as the consequences to which they necessarily lead, and for 
the truth or falsehood of which they are therefore responsi- 
ble, are repugnant. In no other way can the veracity of 
consciousness be assailed. It will argue nothing to show 
that they are incomprehensible, for nothing can be more 
absurd than to make the comprehensibility of a datum of 
consciousness, the criterion of its truth. To ask how an 
immediate fact of consciousness is possible, is to ask how 
consciousness is possible ; and to ask how consciousness is 
possible, is to suppose we have another consciousness above 
and before that human consciousness concerning whose mode 
of operation we inquire. Could wo answer this, verily wc 
should be as gods." Neither of these attempts has ever Seen 



100 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 

made. We may, therefore, receive the testimony of odii< 
Bciousness as true beyond the reach of argument or contra- 
diction. 

4. And, lastly, consciousness testifies to two things : first 
that there is now existing a state of mind; and, secondly 
that that state of mind is an actual cognition of an external 
world possessing such or such qualities. Suppose we admit 
the first testimony; how, then, admitting this, can we reject 
the other testimony of which it forms a part ? What dis- 
tinction can we take between the two items of the same tes- 
timony, by which we can receive the one and reject the 
other. Or, on the other hand, suppose we deny the testi- 
mony of consciousness to the truth of the perception, how 
can we admit it when it attests to an existing state of mind? 
If the one is false, the other may be true, but it is surely 
not to be credited. Thus the very facts of our subjective 
existence would be shown to be unworthy of belief, and the 
evidence of the existence of the ego and the non ego would 
be swept away together. 

In this and the preceding article I have used the thoughts, 
and, for the most part, the language of Sir W. Hamilton. 
It gives me pleasure to acknowledge my obligations to a 
gentleman, whose boundless learning in every department of 
human knowledge, united with unrivalled acuteness and 
rare power of examining with perfect distinctness the mi- 
nutest shades of thought, have long since given him a posi- 
tion among the profoundest philosophers of this or any other 
age. 

5. I close this section with a few remarks upon the law of 
perception in its relation to evidence. This law may be 
Btated in few words. 

1. When all our faculties are in a normal state, and an 
appropriate object is presented to an organ of sense, a sen- 
Bation or a perception immediately ensues. We cannc t b^ 



VALIDITY OF PERCEPTION. 101 

aur will prevent it. If I open my eyes, I cannot escape tha 
Bight of the object before me. If a sound is made, near tc 
me, I cannot by my will prevent hearing it ; and the same 
is true of all other senses. 

2. On the other hand, my faculties being in their norma] 
condition, if no object is presented to my organs of sense, 
1 can perceive none. I cannot perceive what I will, but 
only what is presented to me. I cannot see a tree, unless a 
tree is before me. I cannot hear a sound, unless a sound is 
produced within hearing; and so of the rest. 

3. Hence it follows that if, under normal conditions, I 
am conscious of perceiving an external object, then that 
object exists when and where I perceive it. The conscious 
perception could exist under no other conditions. It is a 
fact which admits of being accounted for in no other man- 
ner. And, on the other hand, if, under normal circum- 
stances, I perceive no object, then no object exists to be 
perceived. 

These simple laws lie at the foundation of the evidence 
of testimony. If we perceive an event, we know that that 
event is transpiring. If we remember that we perceived it, 
we know that it has transpired. So, if we are satisfied 
that credible witnesses were conscious of perceiving an ob- 
ject, we know that the object existed as perceived. If un- 
der circumstances, such that if it were present they must 
have perceived it, and they were conscious of no percep- 
tion, then we know that the object was not present. The 
further consideration of the conditions by which these lawa 
are limited belongs to the science of evidence. The state- 
ment of the law itself is all that concerns to our present 
inquiry. 

Within a few years past various statements have been 
made which seem to modify the above laws. It has been 
asserted that persons, under the influence of wh\t is called 
9* 



102 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 

mesmerism, can be rendered perfectly unconscpus of what 
is passing around them ; that they are able to cognize per- 
sons and events without the intervention of the appropriate 
media, and unler circumstances which render it certain 
that such cognitions could not have originated in the ordi 
nary use of the organs of sense. This subject has attracte ] 
considerable attention, both in this country and in Europe. 
Sir W. Hamilton remarks: "However astonishing, it is now 
proved, beyond all rational doubt, that, in certain abnormal 
states of the nervous organism, perceptions are possible 
through other than the ordinary channels of the senses." — - 
Hamilton's Reid, page 246, note 2, Edinburgh edition. 

It has been, I believe, proved beyond dispute, that pa- 
tients under this influence have submitted to the most dis- 
tressing operations without consciousness of pain ; that other 
persons have cognized events, at a great distance, and have 
related them correctly at the time j and that persons totally 
blind, when in the state of mesmeric consciousness have 
enjoyed for the time the power of perceiving external ob- 
jects. So far as I have been informed, while these distant 
cognitions are sometimes correct, they are as frequently 
wholly erroneous, and the person is totally unable to distin- 
guish the true from the false. The subject seems to rr.8 
well worthy of the most searching and candid examination, 
The facts seem to indicate some more general laws of exter- 
nal cognition than have yet been discovered. The matter 
is by no means deserving of ridicule, but demands the atten- 
tion of the most ph ilosophical inquirers. 

REFERENCES. 

Knowledge acquired by perception is of individuals — Locke, Book 4, 
ehap. 7, sec. 9 ; Reid, Essay 5, chap. \. 

The knowledge acquired by perception is real — Reid, Essay 2, chaps. & 
»nd20 



CONCEPTION. 103 

rrimarj and secondary qualities — Locke, book 2d, chap. 8, sec. 9, 10, 
W, 24 ; Reid, Essay 2d, eh. 17 ; Cousin, ch. 6. 

Sir W. Hamilton, Dissertation supplementary to Reid ;.note D. 

Laws of Perception — Reid, Essay 2d, ch. 1, 2. 

The credibility of the evidence of perception demonstrated — Sir \^ 
Hamilton's Dissertation on Co' ynon Sense. Note A, as above. 



SECTION XI. — OF CONCEPTION. 

The subject of conception is, in its origin, so intimately 
allied to perception, that, although it enters as a constituent 
element into almost every act of the mind, there seems a 
propriety in treating of it here. 

The word conception has already frequently occurred in 
the preceding pages. It is proper that it should be more 
definitely explained. 

Conception has been defined as that act of the mind in 
which we form a notion or thought of a thing. To this, 
however, it has been objected, that the word notion or 
thought in this place means the same as conception, and 
that we might with the same propriety reverse the defini- 
tion, and say that the having a notion of a thing was the 
forming a conception of it. There seems to be force in this 
objection. The fact is, that a simple act of the mind is in- 
capable of definition. We can do no more than present the 
circumstances under which it arises, and our own conscious- 
ness at once teaches us what is meant. 

J. To proceed in this manner, then, I would observe that 
when I look upon a book, or any external object, I instantly 
Torm a notion of it, of a particular kind. I know it as an ex- 
ternal body, numerically distinct from myself, of a certain 
form color and magnitude, at this moment and in this 
place existing before me. When I handle a book, I have th« 



104 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 

same notion, the quality of color only excepted. Tbtt 

knowledge is called perception. 

2. Secondly, I find that when the object of perception ia 
removed, and the act of perception ceases, a knowledge of 
the object is still present to my raiul. This is called a con- 
ception. Thus, the book which I just now perceived is re- 
moved, but the conception of it is still an object of con- 
sciousness. A cube which I saw is burned to ashes, but I 
have a distinct conception of its form and dimensions. I can 
recall to my mind the cataract which I saw last summer, the 
house in which I slept, or particular portions of the road over 
which I passed. In these cases, however, the conception is 
not simple ; it is combined with the act of memory. I have 
not only the conception, but the assurance or belief, that at 
a certain time these objects actually existed as I now con- 
ceive of them. 

3. But let us now separate this act of conception from 
the act of memory. We can conceive of a tree or a cataract 
without connecting it with the idea either of present or 
past existence. We are doing this continually in the course 
of our own thoughts. We do it when we read a romance. We 
are here continually forming images of things, places, and 
persons, which we know never existed. So, in a geometri- 
cal demonstration, we form for ourselves the conception of a 
figure, and proceed to reason upon it, though we have never 
Been it represented to the eye.* A concept or concep- 

* The word conception is commonly used in two or three significations. 
it is employed to designate the power or faculty, the individual act of that 
faculty, and that act considered as an object of thought. On this subject 
Sir W. Hamilton remarks, "We ought to distinguish imagination and 
image, conception and concept. Imagination and conception oughc to bf 
employed in speaking of the mental modification, one and indivisiDle, coa« 
Bidered as an act; image and concept, in speaking of it, considered ha 
product or immediate object " — Note to page 263. 



CONCEPTION. 105 

tion is, therefore, that representation or cognition of a 
thing which we form in the mind when we are thinking of 
it. 

4. A.gain, when we think of an act of the mind as think- 
ing, willing, believing, or of any emotion, as joy or sorrow, 
are form a conception of it. We cannot think it unless W6 
can do this. Hence, when a state of mind is spoken of which 
we cannot represent to ourselves in thought, we say we can- 
hot conceive of it ; that is, the words spoken do not awaken 
in us any corresponding conception. 

5. Again, by the faculty of abstraction we may analyze 
the elements of these concrete conceptions, and combine 
them into general or abstract ideas. Thus, from several in- 
dividual horses we form the general notion of a horse, mean- 
ing the genus, and having respect to no individual horse 
existing. These are general conceptions, or conceptions of 
genera or species. 

6. We have also conceptions of general intuitive truths, 
such as the axioms of mathematics. We conceive of the 
truth that the whole is greater than its part, or that if 
equals be added to equals the wholes are equal. So we form 
conceptions of general relations, as of cause and effect 
power, and many others. 

7. Lastly, we are able to form images by combining into 
one whole, elements previously existing in the mind, as when 
a painter conceives of a landscape, or of a historical group. 
This form of conception is more properly styled imagination. 

In all cases of conception where the act is completed, if I 
do not mistake, we form something of the nature of a pic- 
ture, which the mind contemplates as the object of thought. 
I am aware that, in speaking and writing, when the terms 
are perfectly familtar, we do not pause and form the con- 
ception. Thus, we use the axioms, in demonstration, without 
pausing to reflect upon the words we employ, and yet wo 



106 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 

use them Vith entire accuracy. Thus we speak of cause 
and effect, number, and various other ideas. When, how- 
ever, we attempt to dwell upon any one of these ideas, so 
far as I can observe, we form a concept of it in the mind. 
Thus, when I think of the term horse as a genus, and dwell 
upon it in thought, there is before me, as an object, a con- 
cept of such an animal. So, if I think the axiom the whole 
is greater than its part, two magnitudes corresponding to 
these terms present themselves before me. From this 
remark, however, must be excepted those cases in which we 
recognize a truth as a necessary condition of thought, as 
duration, space, and ideas of a similar character. Even 
here, however, we find the mind from its natural impulse 
striving to realize something which shall correspond to a 
concept. 

Of conceptions thus explained it may be remarked in 
general : 

1. In conception there is nothing numerically distinct 
from the act of the mind itself. From the analogies of Ian - 
guage we are liable to be misled in thinking of this subject. 
We speak of forming a conception, and of forming a machine ; 
of separating the elements of a conception, and of separating 
the parts of an object from one another. As in the one 
case there is some object distinct from the ego. we are prone 
to suppose that there must be also in the other. There is, 
however, in conception nothing but the act of the mind 
itself. We may, nevertheless, contemplate tlr's act from 
different points of view ; first, as an act of the mind, or as 
the mind in this particular act, and, secondly, as a product 
of that act which we use in thinking. There is, however, 
numerically nothing but the act of the mind itself. 

2. Conception enters into all the other acts of the mind. 
In the simplest sensation there is, for the time being, a 
knowledge or a notion, though it may remain w* ; th ur not a 



CONCEPTION. 107 

moment after the object producing it is withdrawn. We 
can have a knowledge of our own powers only as we have 
conceptions of them. We can remember, or judge, or rea- 
son, only as we have conceptions. In fact, all our menta. 
processes are about conceptions. Of them, all our knowl- 
edge consists. 

3. Our conceptions are to us the measure of possibility. 
When any proposition cannot be conceived, that is, is un- 
thinkable, we declare it impossible or absurd. Thus, if n 
be said that a part is greater than the whole, that two 
straight lines can enclose space, or that a change can take 
place in a body while all the conditions of its existence re- 
main absolutely the same, I understand the assertion ; but 
when I attempt to form a conception of it, that is, to thing 
it, I find myself unable to do so. I affirm it to be impos- 
sible. On the other hand, I may think of a communication 
between the earth and the moon. In the present state of 
science it is impracticable, but it is within the limits of 
thought, and my mind is not so organized that I feel it to 
be impossible. This case, is, however, to be distinguished 
from the unconditional, the incomprehensible. This, from 
the nature of our intellect, we know to be necessary ; it is 
not contradictory to thought, though to grasp the concep- 
tion is impossible. In the other case we are able to com- 
prehend the terms, but we are unable to construe them in 
thought ; in other words, the relation which is affirmed is 
unthinkable. 

4. In simple conception, or where it is unattended by 
any other act of the mind, there is neither truth nor false- 
hood. I may conceive of a red mountain, of a blue rose, of 
a winged horse, but the conception has nothing to do with 
my belief in the existence of either of these objects. If the 
conception is united with an act of judgment or memory, 
then it at once becomes either true r false. In the conoep- 



108 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 

Hon itself, however, I can discover neither. Stewart, 3 
know, advances a contrary opinion ; but I must confess my- 
self wholly unconvinced by his reasoning. 

5. Conceptions may be either clear and distinct, or obscure 
and indistinct. We easily observe the difference here spoken 
of in the effects produced on us by different descriptions. 
Some authors describe a scene with so graphic a power that we 
at once form a conception as definite as though we had our- 
selves beheld it. Others use emphatic and imposing lan- 
guage, but they leave on us no distinct impression. We 
are deluged by a shower of words, but no conception is 
imprinted on the memory. 

6. Conceptions may be strong and vivid, or faint and 
languid. The same scene may with equal faithfulness be 
described to us by two persons. The one deeply affects us, 
while the other hardly interests us sufficiently to command 
our continued attention. We observe the same effect in 
ourselves, resulting from the accidental tone of our own minds. 
At some times we find our conceptions much stronger than 
at others, under precisely the same external circumstances. 

From what has been observed, it will readily appear that 
the power of forming conceptions differs greatly in differ- 
ent individuals. Every teacher must have remarked this 
fact, in his attempts to communicate instruction. Some per- 
sons will at once seize upon the salient points of a concep- 
tion, discover its bearing and relations, and hold it steadily 
before the mind, until it becomes incorporated with their 
knowledge. They never can be satisfied until they have 
attained to this result. Others require repeated explana- 
tions, and, when they suppose themselves to have mastered 
a conception, we are surprised to observe. that no important 
point seems to have arrested their attention, but that there 
rest on their minds only considerations of inferior impor* 
tance blended together in dim and uncertain confusion. 



CONCEPTION. 109 

The differenos, in chis respect, is still more remarkable in 
the connection of conception with the fine arts, though per- 
haps this exercise of the power belongs rather to the imagi- 
nation. A portrait-painter will form so distinct a concep- 
tion of a countenance trat, years afterward, he will repre- 
sent it correctly on canvas. The same power of forming 
distinct conceptions is essential to the poet or novelist. No 
one can read the descriptions of Sir Walter Scott without 
being sensible of his high endowment in this respect. Nor 
was this power limited to the scenes which he himself had 
witnessed. His description of a summer day in the deserts 
of Syria could not have been surpassed by the most gifted 
Bedouin Arab. It was to this power that he owed much 
of that brilliant conversational eminence, which rendered 
him the centre of attraction in every circle in which he 
chose to unbend himself. 

REFERENCES. 

Conception — Reid, Essay 1, chap. 1 

Formed at will — Reid, Essay 4, chap. 1. 

Enter into every other act of the mind — Reid, Essay 4, chap 1. 

Neither true nor false — Reid, Essay 4, chap. 1. 

Ingredients derived from other powers — Reid, Essay 4, chap. 1. 

Analogy between painting and conception — Reid, Essay 4, chap. 1 
Conception in general — Stewart, vol. i., chap. 3. 

Attended with belief — Stewart, vol. i. f chap. 3. 

Fower of description depends on — Stewart, vol. i., chap. 3. 

Improved by habit — Stewart, vol. i., chap. 3. 
Conception — Abercrombie, Part 3, sect. 1. 

Clear or obscure — Abercrombie, Part 3, sect! I. 
In conception neither truth nor falsehood — Locke Book 2d, chap 2% 
•ucts. 1—4, 1'.), 20. 

Clear or obsoui » — Locke, Book 2, oh. 29, sect. J 

10 



CHAPTER II. 

CONSCIOUSNESS, ATTENTION, AND REFLECTION. 



SECTION I. — CONSCIOUSNESS. 

Consciousness is that condition of the mind in which it 
is cognizant of its own operations. It is not thinking and 
feeling, but that condition in which we know that we think 
or feel. Thought, however, is necessary to consciousness, 
for unless thought existed, we could not be conscious of it. 
We may nevertheless suppose a mental act to be performed 
of which we have no consciousness. In such a case we 
should have no knowledge of its present existence, and 
should only know that it had existed by its results. 

On this subject, however, a considerable diversity of opin- 
ion obtains. Sir W. Hamilton and many philosophers of 
the highest authority believe that consciousness cannot prop- 
erly be separated from the act to whose existence it tes- 
tifies, and that to make a distinction between the assertions, 
"I perceive" and "I am conscious of perception," is im- 
possible. They hold that when we are not conscious of an 
act, the act is not performed ; and that when consciousness 
does not testify to anything, it is because there is nothing 
concerning which it can testify. 

In answer to this, it may be granted that when it is said 
" I perceive," the meaning is the same as when I say <: -, 
am conscious of perceiving." When I say "I perceive,' 



CONSCIOUSNESS. Ill 

there is involved, by necessity, in this assertion, th© evi- 
dence of consciousness. The question still returns, Is there 
a state of mind which involves perception, of which we are 
not conscious, and which is not expressed by the words " 1 
am conscious that I perceive" ? 

Let us, then, proceed to examine the facts. A person may 
be engaged in reading, or in earnest thought, and a clock 
may strike within a few feet of him without arresting bis 
attention. He will not know that it has struck. Let, now /; 
another person ask him, within a few seconds, if tbe clock 
has struck, and he will be conscious of a more or less dis- 
tinct impression that he has just heard it ; and, turning to 
observe the dial-plate, finds such to have been the fact. 
What, now, was his state of mind previous to the Question 1 
Had there not been a perception of which he was not con 
scious 1 

But we may take a much stronger case. While a person 
is reading aloud to another, some train of thought frequent- 
ly arrests his attention. He, however, continues to read, 
until his opinion is requested concerning some sentiment of 
the author. He is unpleasantly startled by the reflection 
that he has not the remotest conception of what he has been 
reading about. He remembers perfectly well up to a cer- 
tain point, but beyond this point be is as ignorant of the 
book as if he had never seen it. What, then, was the state of 
his mind while he was reading ? He looked upon the page. 
He must have seen every letter, for he enunciated every 
word, and observed every pause correctly. No one had a 
suspicion that he did not cognize the thoughts which he 
was enunciating to others. Yet, the moment afterwards, he 
has not the least knowledge either of the words or the ideas. 
Can we say that there was no perception here 1 Could a 
man read a sentence aloud without perceiving the words in 
which it was written? Yet, so far as we can discover, thin 
state of mind was unattended by oorsciousnesa. 



112 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 

Another case of a very striking character, was related to 
me by the person to whom it refers. A few years sinc^, 
while in Londtn, I became acquainted with a gentleman 
who had, for many years, held the responsible office of short- 
hand writer to .the House of Lords. In conversation one 
day, he mentioned to me the following occurrence. Some 
time during the last war with France, he was engaged in 
taking minutes of evidence in a court of inquiry respecting 
the Walcheren expedition. In this duty he was incessantly 
engaged from four o'clock in the afternoon until four o'clock 
the next morning. At two o'clock in the morning he was 
aroused from a state of unconsciousness by Sir James E., one 
of the members of the court, who asked him to read the min- 
utes of the evidence of the last witness. It was the testimony 
of one of the general officers who had described the fortifica- 
tions of Flushing. My friend, Mr. G., replied, with some em- 
barrassment, "I fear I have not got it all." "Never mind,'' 
replied the officer, " begin, and we will help you out." The 
evidence consisted of two pages of short-hand, and Mr. G 
read it to the close. He remembered it all perfectly ex- 
cepting the last four lines, of which he had no recollection 
whatever. These last lines were, however, written as legibly 
as the rest, and he read them without difficulty. When he 
came to the end, he turned to General E., saying, " Six 
James, that is all I have." " That," replied the other, "is 
all there is ; you have the whole of it perfectly." He had 
reported the evidence with entire accuracy up to the very 
moment when he was called upon to read, and yet the last 
four lines had been written, and written in short-hand, so 
far as he knew, during a period of perfect unconsciousness. 

The condition of the mind which we term derangement 
conveys some instruction on this subject. Here, it is not 
uncommon for the patient to suppose that he is not the per- 
son speaking or acting, but some other, and that some othef 



CONSCIOUSNESS. 113 

mini than his own is occupying his body and performing 
the intellectual operations, of which he is conscious. Thus, 
Pinel mentions the case of a man in France who imagined 
that he had been sentenced to death and guillotined ; but 
that, after his execution, the judges reversed their decision, 
and ordered his head to be replaced ; the executioner re- 
placed the wrong head, and hence he was ever after think- 
ing the thoughts of another man instead of his own. We 
have said that consciousness is that condition of the mind 
in which it becomes cognizant of its own operations ; that 
is, we are cognizant, not only that certain intellectual opera- 
tions are carried on, but that they are our own. In thisi 
case of deranged consciousness, the individual was aware 
that there were thoughts, desires, remembrances, &c, going 
on within him, but he could not recognize them as the opera- 
tions of his own mind. 

These cases would seem to show that a distinction may 
fairly be made between consciousness and the faculties to the 
operation of which it testifies. Yet it would scarcely seem 
proper to denominate it a faculty ; I prefer to call it a con- 
dition of the mind. 

Such being the nature of consciousness, it is of course 
unnecessary to specify the various kinds of knowledge which 
we cognize by means of it. If it be the condition neces- 
sary to the cognition of our mental operations, then all 
forms of thought are made known to us through thia 
medium. Hence, as I have before suggested, to say I 
know, and to say 1 am conscious of knowing, mean the same 
thing : since the one cannot be true without involving the 
other. 

Consciousness always has respect to the state of the mind 

tself, and not to anything external. We are not conscious 

of a tree, but conscious that we perceive the tree. We may 

be conscious of hearing a sound ; we are not conscious of a 

10* 



114 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 

Bound. Those writers who deny the existence of conscious- 
ness as a condition distinguishable from the act to which ft 
testifies, of course, adopt a different form of expression. 
They would say that I am conscious of a tree, or of a 
Bound, assuming that perception in all its varieties is but so 
many forms of consciousness. I have no desire to enter 
upon a farther discussion of this subject. So far, however, 
as I am able to observe the operations of my own mind, 1 
am constrained to believe that the form of expression which 
I have used represents my act in perception more accurately 
than the other. 

Consciousness has respect to the present, never to the 
past. We can be conscious of nothing that does not exist 
now and here. We may be conscious that we now remem 
" her the sunset of yesterday, but we cannot now be conscious 
of the perception of the sunset of yesterday. We may be 
conscious that we remember the appearance of an absent 
friend, but we cannot be conscious of the appearance of an 
absent friend. 

In the normal condition of the mind, consciousness, with- 
out any effort of the will, is always in exercise, and is 
always bearing witness to the existence of our own mental 
acts. It may be turned off involuntarily from the object 
directly before us to some other, but, during our waking 
hours, it always bears witness to something. Hence, con- 
sciousness, united with memory, gives rise to the conviction 
of personal identity. We know by means of this faculty 
that certain thoughts and feelings exist, and that they are 
the thoughts and feelings of the being whom I denominate 
I, myself. Memory connects these various testimonies of 
consciousness into a connected series, and thus we know that 
our intellectual acts, from our earliest recollection, proceed 
from the same being, and not another. I thus know that 
the thoughts and feelings which I remember to have been 



CONSCIOUSNESS 115 

conscious of yesterday are the thoughts and feelings of the 
same being who is conscious of other intellectual acta 
to-day ; that is, that through all the changes of the present 
state, the ego, myself, is the same individual and continuous 
subject. 

There have been observed occasionally abnormal cases 
of "what may be termed double consciousness. In such a 
case, the present existence of the individual is at one time 
connected with one period of his life, and at another time 
with another. A young woman in Springfield, Mass., some 
years since, was affected in this manner. She was at first 
subject to attacks of what appeared to be ordinary somnam- 
bulism. These were then transferred from the night to the 
day-time, and during their continuance her powers of per- 
ception were in a strange manner modified. With her eyes 
thickly bandaged, in a dark room, she could read the finest 
print. She was removed to the hospital for the insane at 
Worcester, in order to be under the care of the late Dr. 
Woodward. Here it was immediately observed that her 
normal and abnormal states represented two conditions of 
consciousness. Whatever she learned in the abnormal state 
was entirely forgotten as soon as she passed from this state 
to the other, but was perfectly remembered as soon as the 
abnormal state returned. Thus she was taught to play 
backgammon in both states. What she learned in the ab- 
normal state was entirely disconnected from what she learned 
in her natural state, and vice versa. The acquisition made 
in one state was lost as soon as she entered the other : and 
it was remarked that she learned more rapidly in the abnor- 
mal than in the normal state. The first symptom of her 
recovery was the blending together of the knowledge 
acquired in these separate conditions. As the cure ad- 
vanced, they became more and more identified, until the 
testimony of consciousness became uninterrupted and then 



316 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 

the abnormal state vanished altogether. Several cases are 
also on record in which persons have been subject to this 
double consciousness without any manifestation of somnam • 
bulism. In such instances, the individual has suddenly 
awaked to a recollection of his former life, with the excep- 
tion of a portion immediately preceding, of which he has no 
recollection. A period of his existence seems perfectly 
parenthetical, and h-S present consciousness connects itself 
only with that portion of his life which preceded the change 
in his condition. This peculiar affection will be best illus- 
trated by an example. A few years since, a theological 
student, represented to be a person of unexceptionable char- 
acter, was suddenly missing from a city in the interior of 
New York. All search for him was fruitless, and he waa 
supposed to have been murdered. A few months afterwards, 
his friends received a letter from him, dated Liverpool, 
England. He stated that a short time before, he had found 
himself on board of a vessel bound from Montreal to Liver- 
pool, without the least knowledge of the manner in which 
he came there. He recollected nothing from the time of 
his being in the city where he had last been seen by hia 
friends. He however learned from his fellow-passengera 
that he had embarked on board the vessel at Montreal, — and 
he must have walked about two hundred miles in order to 
arrive there, — that he sometimes seemed peculiar on the 
passage, but that there had been nothing in his conduct to 
excite particular remark. 

Consciousness suggests to us the notion of existence. 
When we are conscious of a sensation there immediately 
springs from it the idea of self-existence. The conscious- 
ness of a perception suggests the idea of the existence both 
}f the object perceived, of the subject perceiving, and fre- 
quently of some particular condition of that subject. Thus, 
tuppose I am looking upon a waterfall. I am confide is of 



CONSCIOUSNESS. 117 

cognizing an external object ; I am conscious of the state 
of mind called perception, and I am conscious of the emotion 
of beauty or sublimity occasioned by the object which 1 
perceive. 

It is obviously in our power to contemplate at will either 
of these objects of thought. I may direct my attention to 
the external object, or to the internal mental act. or to the 
emotion which the object occasions. Thus, in the instance 
just mentioned, I may direct my whole power of thought to 
the observation of the waterfall. I may examine it so care- 
fully and minutely, that its image is fixed in my remem- 
brance forever. Or, on the other hand, I may turn my 
attention to my own intellectual state, and analyze the 
nature of the act of perception. Or, still more, after 
having become deeply impressed with the external object, I 
may contemplate my own emotions, and, following the train 
of thought which they awaken, may lose all consciousness 
of the perception of the object, wholly absorbed in the sen- 
sibilities which it has called into action. We may do either 
of these in any particular instance. We may from natural 
bias, or from the circumstances of education, form the habit 
of pursuing either the one or the other of these trains of 
thought. 

Hence arises the distinction between objective and sub- 
jective writers. The objective writer describes with graphic 
power the appearances of external nature, the march of 
pageants, the shock of battles, and whatever addresses itself 
to the perceptive powers. This habit of mind is also of 
special importance in all the researches of physical science 
The subjective writer turn3 his thoughts inward, and either 
as a metaphysician, analyzes his own mental phenomena, 
or pours forth in the language of poetry the emotions of 
his soul. Thomson and Scott, especially the latter, are 
eminently objective. Young and Byron are equally gub« 



118 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHf. 

jective No one can compare a canto of the Lady of the 
Lake Tfith a canto of Childe Harold, or with one of 
Young's Night Thoughts, without observing the difference 
which I am here attempting to illustrate. 

It is, however, obvious that no writer can be either wholly 
objective or wholly subjective. Were two writers wholly 
objective, their representations of external nature would bo 
exactly alike. But how dissimilar are the most objective 
passages of Scott, Thomson and Moore ! Each one tinges 
every description w r ith the hues of his own subjectivity. 
Nor, on the other hand, can the most subjective writer be 
wholly subjective. He needs some objective starting-point, 
and he will choose it in conformity with the peculiar bias of 
his mind, and pursue that line of thought which best har- 
monizes with his general temperament. Thus Young com- 
mences a train of subjective reflection by reference to an 
external object. 

" The bell strikes one ! "We take no note of time 
But by its loss. To give it then a tongue 
Is wise in man. As if an angel spoke, 
I feel the solemn sound ! If heard aright, 
It is the knell of my departed hours." 

Minds of the very highest endowment have the objective 
and the subjective equally at their command. Not only the 
descriptions of Shakspeare and Milton, but their delinea- 
tions of human emotion, are the theme of universal eulogy. 
And w T e may also remark that for its power over the human 
heart genius depends less upon the circumstances by which 
it is surrounded, than upon its own inherent energies. 
Cowper has so described the bogs and fens of Olney, that 
ve seem to have been contemplating a picturesque land- 
scape ; and " the turning up of a mouse's nest with the 
plough " is reflected back in images of affecting loveliness 
from the bosom of Burns, 



ATTENTION AND REFLECTION. 11& 



SECTION II. — ATTENTION AND REFLECTION. 

I have remarked in the previous section that conscious- 
Hess, in the ordinary states of the mind, is involuntary. We 
are sensible of no effort of the will when we either observe 
the objects around us, or are conscious of the mental changes 
taking place within us. I have also above alluded to the 
fact that we may make either the object perceived, or the 
state of the perceiving subject, an object of thought. 

But, besides this, our consciousness may be accompanied 
by an act of the will. We may, for instance, will to ex- 
amine, with the greatest possible care, an object of percep- 
tion, as a mineral, or a flower, or some particular work of 
art. Excluding every other object of thought, the effort of 
the mind is concentrated upon the act of perception. We 
thus may discover qualities which we never before perceived. 
But in what respect does this state of mind differ from ordi- 
nary consciousness ? The effort of the will cannot change 
the image formed on the retina ; for it can exert no influence 
whatever on the laws of light to which this image is sub- 
jected. It must consist in a more intense consciousness, by 
which every impression made on the organ of sense is 
brought more directly before the mind. Our perception 
is excited and directed by an act of the will. This condi- 
tion of mind, when directed to an external object, is properly 
called Attention. 

The difference between consciousness and attention may, 
[ think, be easily illustrated. In \ assing through a street, 
ve are conscious of perceiving every house within the range 
of our vision. But let us now come to a row of buildings, 
one of which we desire to find, and which has been pre- 
viously described to us. We examine every one of these 
houses earnestly and minutely. We ean ; if it be necessary 



£20 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 

iescribe every cue of them with accuracy, while of the 
others which we have passed in our walk we can give no 
account whatever. We say that we have observed every 
house in that row attentively, but that on the others we 
[>estowed no attention. Or, to take a too common instance ; 
we read a book carelessly, we see every letter and form a 
conception of every sentence ; but all is done listlessly, and 
we close the book hardly aware of a single idea that we 
have gained while we have been thus occupied. Let, how- 
ever, our whole mental effort be directed to the subject on 
which we are reading, and we fix it in our recollection, and 
we can, at will, recall it and make it a matter of thought. 
We say of ourselves, that in the former case we read with- 
out and in the latter case with attention. 

We sometimes, I think, speak of attention as practically 
distinguished from every other act of the mind. Thus, 
suppose we are striving to catch an indistinct sound that is 
occurring at intervals, we then listen with attention. We 
say to another person, " Give all your attention that is pos- 
sible, and you may hear it." He may possibly reply, "I 
am all attention." Here we seem to recognize the condition 
of attention directed to no present object of perception, bu 
we merely place ourselves in a condition to perceive any 
abject which presents itself. 

Sometimes the object to which our thought is directed is 
internal ; that is, it is some state of the mind itself. Ordi- 
nary consciousness testifies to the existence of these stater 
without any act of the will ; nay, it is not in the power of 
the will to arrest this continuous testimony. But we some- 
times desire to consider some particular mental state, as the 
;t of perception or memory ; or some emotion / as that of 
Am beautiful or sublime. It is in the power of the will to 
detain such mental state, and hold it up before us as an 
object of thought. When, by volition, we make our own 



ATTENTION AND KEFLECTION. 121 

mental states objects of observation, we denominate this act 
Reflection. As the etymology of the word indicates, we 
turn the mind backwards upon itself, so that it contemplates 
its own states and operations, very much as in the case of 
attention it concentrates its effort upon objects of percep- 
tion. 

I do not pretend that the words attention and reflection 
are always used in this restricted sense. Attention is fre- 
quently used to designate voluntary consciousness both ob- 
jective and subjective. Reflection is not so commonly used 
to denote both mental states. It has, however, seemed to 
me that these mental states should be designated by different, 
terms, and that the etymology of the two words, as well as 
the general current of good use, tends in the direction 
which I have here indicated. 

This general power of rendering the various faculties of 
the mind obedient to the will is of the greatest possible 
importance to the student. Without it, he can never em- 
ploy any power of the mind with energy or effect. Until 
it be acquired, our faculties, however brilliant, remain 
undisciplined and comparatively useless. From the want of 
it, many men, who in youth give, as is supposed, great 
promise of distinction, with* advancing years sink down into 
hopeless obscurity. Endowed with fertility of imagination 
and unusual power of language, they are able to follow any 
train of thought that accident may suggest, and clothe the 
ideas of others with imagery which seems to indicate orig- 
inal power of scientific research. But the time soon arrives 
when the exigences of life require accuracy of knowledge, 
soundness of judgment, and well-placed reliance on the 
decisions of our own intellect. The time for display has 
passed, and the time for action — action on which our success 
or failure depends — has come. Such men, then, after per- 
haps dazzling the circle of their friends with a few wild and 
11 



122 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 

fanciful scnemes, which gleam at intervals amid the ap- 
proaching darkness, sink below the horizon, and are seen no 
more forever. 

One of the greatest advantages derived from early and 
systematic education is found in the necessity which it 
imposes of learning thoroughly and at stated periods certain 
appropriate lessons. We are thus obliged to direct our 
attention for a time to the earnest pursuit of some object. 
By being placed under this necessity for a few years, the 
power of the will over the faculties, if we are faithful to 
ourselves, becomes habitual. What we learn is of impor- 
tance, but this importance is secondary to that of so culti- 
vating and disciplining our faculties that we are ever after- 
wards able to use them in enlarging the boundaries of 
science, or directing the courses of human thought and 
action. If a system of education, besides cultivating tha 
habit of attention, cultivates also the habit of reflection and 
generalization, so that the student learns not only to acquire 
but from his acquisitions to rise to general principles, ob- 
serve the operations of his own mind, and compare what re 
has learned with the instinctive teachings of his own under- 
standing, the great object of the instructor will be success- 
fully accomplished. 

To acquire habits of earnest and continued attention and 
reflection, is one of the most difficult tasks of the student. 
At the beginning, he finds his mind wandering, his atten- 
tion easily turned aside from the object to which he would 
direct it, and disposed to yield to the attraction of external 
objects, or to seize upon every fancy that the memory or 
the imagination may present. Much of that time is thus 
6pent in dreamy idleness, which he had really determined 
to employ in laborious study. It is evident that his success 
*nust depend wholly on the correction of these habits. Our 
ininds are comparatively useless to us 3 unless we can render 



ATTENTION AND REFLECTION 123 

ihem orient servants to the will, so that, at anj' time and 
under any circumstances, we can oblige them to think of 
what we wish, as long as we wish, and then dismiss it and 
think of something else. We should strive to attain such a 
command of all our faculties that we can direct our whole 
mental energies upon the most abstruse proposition, until 
we have either solved it, or ascertained that, with our pres- 
ent advantages, a solution is impossible. 

Perhaps the section cannot be more profitably closed 
than by the suggestion of some means by which the power 
of che will over the other faculties may be increased. 

1. Much depends upon the condition of the physical sys- 
tem. Our intellectual faculties are in more perfect exercise 
in health than in sickness, and as the condition of the body 
tends to sickness our power over them is proportionally 
diminished. Every one knows how difficult it is to command 
his attention during a paroxysm of fever. In recovering from 
illness, one of the first symptoms of convalescence is a return 
of the power over the mind, and a disposition to employ it in 
its accustomed pursuits. Now, it is obvious that anything 
which interferes with the normal condition of the system, 
during the continuance of its action, produces the same 
effect as temporary indisposition. Such causes are over- 
feeding, either occasionally or habitually, the use of indiges- 
tible food, the want of sleep, or of exercise, undue mental 
excitement, or exce^siv;* fatigue. Every one in the least 
attentive to this subject must have observed the effect of 
some or all of these causes upon his power of mental con- 
centration. A large portion of the life of many men is 
spent in habitual violation of the laws by which the free use 
of the mind is conditioned. If, by accident, they for a 
short time obey the laws of their nature, their intellectual 
powers recover their tone, and they enjoy what they call a 
lucid interval. They postpone all important mental laboi 



124 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 

until this favored period arrives, without ever suspecting 
that it is owing to their own folly that they are not in this 
condition continually. Our Creator manifestly intended 
that our intellectual light should shine with a clear and steady 
brilliancy, not that it should gleam out occasionally, after 
long periods of mist and gloom and darkness. But. if we 
would obtain the power of using our intellect to the greatest 
advantage, we must habitually obey those laws which have 
been imposed upon us by our Creator. 

The diet of a student should be light, and rather spare 
than abundant. A laboring man needs nutritious and 
abundant food, to supply the waste caused by physical exer- 
tion. The diet which is indispensable to the one is exceed- 
ingly injurious to the other. A student also requires reg- 
ular and sufficient daily exercise, which should generally be 
carried to the point of full perspiration. His sleep should 
be all that health requires, and he should invariably retire 
at an early hour. His study and sleeping room should be 
well ventilated, and his ablutions should be daily and 
abundant. To specify more minutely in detail the treat- 
ment of the physical system, would be out of place here ; 
and, besides, no rules which could be given would be appli- 
cable to every case. Every man, observing the laws of the 
human constitution, should apply them honestly to his own 
case. All that is required is that the student form all his 
physical habits with the direct and earnest purpose of giv- 
ing the freest scope and the most active exercise to all his 
'ntcllectual faculties. 

It is, however, the fact that students are liable to err in 
almost all of these particulars. They pay no attention 
either to the quantity or quality of their food. Though, 
perhaps, in early life, accustomed to labor, as soon as they 
commence a course of study, they forsake, not only labor, 
but all manner of exercise. If anxious to improve, they 



ATTENTION AND REFLECTION. 125 

fttudy until late at night, thus destroying the power of ap- 
plication for the following day. They live in heated and 
ill -ventilated rooms. Measuring their progress by the num- 
ber of hours employed in study, they remain over their 
books until the power of attention is exhausted. Much of 
their time is thus spent in ineffectual efforts to comprehend 
the proposition before .them, or, after they have compre- 
hended it, in equally ineffectual attempts to fix it in their 
recollection. The result of all this it is painful to contem- 
plate. Broken down in health and enfeebled in mind, the 
man in early life is turned out upon society a confirmed and 
mediocre invalid, equally unfitted for the habits either of 
active or sedentary life. This is surely unfortunate. There 
can be no good reason why a student, or the practitioner of 
what are called the professions, should be an invalid. To 
study, violates no moral or physical law. A student may, 
then, be is healthy in body and vigorous in mind as any 
other man. If he be not, his misfortune is the result, not 
of mere mental application, but of the violation of the lawa 
under which he has been created. 

2. I have already intimated that the power of prolonged 
and earnest attention depends upon the will. But we find 
that until the" mind becomes in some manner disciplined, the 
influence of the will is feeble and irregular. Of course, 
our first attempt must be to increase the power of the will 
over the other intellectual faculties. 

Here, however, I am aware that probably great differ- 
ences exist in mental constitution. The will in some men 
is by nature stronger than in others. Some men surrender 
a deliberately-formed purpose at the appearance of a trifling 
obstacle ; others cling to it with a tenacity which nothing 
but death can overcome. In this latter case, every physical 
and mental energy is consecrated to the accomplishment of 
the purpose to which the life of the being is devoted. When 
11* 



126 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 

such a will, moved by high moral principle ind guided by 
sound judgment, is directed to the accomplishment of a 
great enterprise, it wins for its possessor a name among the 
benefactors of the race. John Howard was an illustrious 
example of this class of men. The most masterly delinea- 
tion of this form of character found, so far as I know, in 
any language, is contained in John Foster's Essays ; a book 
which I should fail in my duty did I not recommend to the 
thoughtful perusal of every young man. 

Such instances of energetic will are, however, rare, and 
it becomes us to inquire whether the control over our facul- 
ties can be obtained by those who are less happily consti- 
tuted. The most important means of cultivation, if we 
desire to improve ourselves, lies in the will itself. The more 
constantly we exercise it, the greater does its power become. 
The more habitually we do what we resolve to do, instead of 
doing what we are solicited to do by indolence, or appetite, 
or passion, or the love of trifles, the more readily will our 
faculties obey us. At first the effort may yield only a partial 
result, but perseverance will render the result more and 
more apparent, until at last we shall find ourselves able to 
employ our faculties in such manner as we desire. If, then, 
the student finds his mind unstable, ready tb wander in 
search of every other object than that directly before him, 
let him never yield to its solicitations. If it stray from the 
subject, let him recall it, resolutely determining that it shall 
do the work that he bids it. He who will thus faithfully 
deal with his intellectual faculties will soon find that his 
labor has not been in vain. 

But, in order to arrive at this result, we must be thor- 
oughly in earnest, and willing to pay the price for so inval- 
uable an acquisition. We must forego many a sensual 
pleasure, that the action of our faculties may be free and 
unembarrassed. We must -esolutely resist all tendencies 



ATTENTION AND REFLECTION. 127 

to indolence, both physical and mental. We must learn ta 
be alone. We mast put away from us all reading and all 
conversation that would encourage the tendencies which wa 
wish to suppress. By doing this, and exerting to the full 
the present power of our will, we cannot fail to make prog- 
ress in mental discipline. 

It may not be improper to add a remark respecting a kind 
of reading in which a student is, at the present day, strongly 
tempted to indulge. I have no disposition here to discuss 
the advantages and disadvantages of the reading of works 
of fiction. It is sufficient for my purpose to observe, first, 
that this kind of mental occupation evidently requires no 
effort of the will to arrest the attention. The mind follows 
pleasantly and unconsciously the train of conceptions pre- 
sented by the author. Disquisitions requiring mental effort are 
always considered blemishes in a romance, and are, I believe, 
generally passed over unread. And, secondly, the mind be- 
comes filled with interesting and exciting images, which 
remain with us long after the reading has been finished. 
From these causes, reading of this character must enfeeble 
the will, and create a tendency to wander from a course of 
thought which follows entirely different laws of association. 
These reasons seem to me sufficient for advising any person 
desirous of cultivating the habit of attention, either to 
abandon the reading of fiction altogether, or, at least, to in- 
dulge in it with such severe discretion as shall prevent it 
from fostering those habits which we desire to eradicate. 
After we have accomplished our object, and the victory of 
the will over our other powers has been acknowledged, we 
may allow ourselves a larger liberty. Until this is done, 
the stricter the discipline which we enforce upon ourselves, 
the more rapid will be our attainment in the habit of 
•elf-government. 

3. The power of the will over our other faculties I 



128 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 

greatly issisted by punctuality ; that is, by doing everything 
in precisely the time and place allotted for the doing of it 
If, when the hour for study has arrived, we begin to waste 
our time in frivolous reading or idle musing, we shall find 
our real work more distasteful, the longer we procrastinate. 
If, on the contrary, we begin at once, we the more easily 
conquer our wandering propensities, and our minds are fully 
occupied before trifles have the opportunity of alluring us. 
The men who have accomplished the greatest amount of in- 
tellectual labor have generally been remarkable for punc- 
tuality ; they have divided their time accurately between 
their different pursuits, have rigidly adhered to the plan 
which they have adopted, and have been careful to improve 
every moment to the utmost advantage. 

4. The control of the will over our faculties is much as 
sisted by the use of the pen. The act of writing out our 
own thoughts, or the thoughts of others, of necessity in- 
volves the exercise of continuous attention. Every one 
knows that, after he has thought over a subject with all the 
care in his power, his ideas become vastly more precise by 
committing them to paper. The maxim of the schoolmen 
was studi urn sine calamo somnium. The most remark- 
able thinkers have generally astonished their contemporaries 
by the vast amount of manuscript which they have left be- 
hind them. I think that universal experience testifies to 
the fact that no one can attain to a high degree of mental 
cultivation, without devoting a large portion of his time to 
the labor of composition. 

It is a very valuable habit to read no book without oblig- 
ing ourselves to write a brief abstract of it, with the opinions 
which we have formed concening it. This will oblige us to 
"*ead with attention, and will give the results of that atten- 
tion a permanent place in our recollection. We should 
thus, in fact, become reviewers of every book that we real, 



ATTl'NTION AND REFLECTION. 125 

The learned and indefatigable Reinhardt was thus able 1o 
conduct one of the most valuable reviews in Germany, by 
writing his opinions on every work which came under his 
perusal. The late Lord Jeffrey commenced his literary 
career in precisely this manner. When a youthful student 
at the university, he not only wrote a review of every book 
which he read, but of every paper which he himself com- 
posed. His strictures were even more severe on his own 
writings than on the writings of others. He thus laid the 
foundation of his immense acquisitions, and attained to so 
groat a power of intellectual analysis, that for many years 
he was acknowledged to be the most accomplished critic of 
his time. 

REFERENCES. 

Consciousness — Reid, Essay 1, chap. 1 ; Abercrombie, Part 2, sect. 
2 ; Locke, book 2, chap. 6, sect. 2 ; chap. 9, sect. 1. 

Is consciousness distinguished from perception ? — Stewart, vol. L, 
chap. 2. 

Cases of Abnormal Consciousness — Abercrombie, Part 3, sect. 4 ; part 2 

Attention and Reflection — Reid, Essay 1, chap. 5 ; Essay 4, chap. 4 
Stewart, vol i., chap. 2. Abercrombie, Part 2, chap. 1. 

Improvement of Attention and Reflection, Part 2, chap. 1. 

Consciousness — Cousin, sect. 1, p 12, 8vo • Hartford, 1834. Henry 
translation, and note A, by J lof. H. 



CHAPTER in. 

OKturaAil SUGGESTION, OR THE INTUITIONS OF TUB 
INTELLECT. 



SECTION I. — EXAMINATION OE THE OPINIONS OP LOCKE. 

We have thus far considered those powers of the human 
mind by which it obtains a knowledge of the existence and 
qualities of the external world, and of the existence and 
energies of the thinking subject. This knowledge, as I 
have said, is all cither of individual existences or of individ- 
ual acts, or states of the subjective mind. It is, of course, 
all concrete, and the conceptions derived from it are of the 
same character. This knowledge is original, direct and im- 
mediate. It is the constitutional testimony of our faculties 
as soon as they are brought into relation to their appropri- 
ate objects. It always contemplates as an object something 
now existing, or something which at some time did exist. 

Let us, then, for a moment consider what would be the 
condition of a human being possessed of no other powers 
than those of which we have thus far treated. He would be 
cognizant of the existence and qualities of the objects which 
he perceived, and of the state of mind which these objects 
called into exercise ; and, if endowed with memory, he could 
retain this knowledge in recollection. Here, however, his 
knowledge would terminate. Each fact would remain dis- 
connected from every other, and each separate knowledge 
would terminate absolutely in itself. No re 1 ation between 



OPINIONS OF LOCKE. 131 

any two facts would be either discovered or sought for 
The questions why, or wherefore, would neither be asked 
nor answered. The knowledge acquired would be perfectly 
barren, leading to nothing else, and destitute of all tendency 
and all power to multiply itself into other forms of cognition. 
The mind would be a perfect living daguerreotype, on which 
forms were indelibly impressed, remaining lifeless and un- 
changeable forever. 

It was the opinion of Locke, that all our knowledge either 
consisted of these ideas of sense or consciousness, or was 
derived from them by comparison or combination. Thus, 
says he, " First, our senses, conversant about particular 
sensible objects, do convey to the mind several distinct per- 
ceptions of things, according to those various ways in which 
those objects do affect them. Thus we come to those ideas 
we have of yellow, white, heat, cold, soft, bitter, and all 
those which we call sensible qualities ; which, when I say 
the senses convey to the mind^ I mean they from external 
objects convey into the mind what produces these sensations. 
This source I call Sensation." — Book 2. chap. 1, sec. 3. 

Secondly. " The other fountain from which experience 
furnisheth the understanding with ideas, is the perception 
of the operations of our own minds within us, as it is em- 
ployed about the ideas it has got ; which operations, when 
the soul comes to reflect on and consider, do furnish the 
understanding with another set of ideas, which could not be 
nad from things without. Such are perception, thinking, 
doubting, believing, reasoning, knowing, willing, and all 
those different acts of our own minds, which, we being con- 
scious of and observing in our ownselves, do from these 
receive into the understanding as distinct ideas as we do 
from bodies affecting our senses. I call this Reflect ion." 1 
— Ibid. sect. 4. 

" The understanding seems to me not tc have the least 



132 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 

glimmering of any ideas which it does not receive from on« 
of these two. External objects furnish the mind with the 
ideas of sensible qualities, which are all these different per- 
ceptions they produce in us, and the mind furnishes the 
understanding with ideas of its own operations." Again: 
" Let any one examine his own thoughts, and thoroughly 
search into his understanding;, and let him tell me whether 
all the original ideas he has there are any other than of the 
objects of his senses, or of the operations of the mind 
considered as objects of his reflection, and how great a mass 
of knowledge soever he imagines to be lodged there, he will, 
upon taking a strict view, see that he has not any idea in 
his* mind but what one of these two have imprinted, though, 
perhaps, with infinite variety, compounded and enlarged by 
the understanding, as we shall see hereafter." — Ibid. Sec. 5. 

Again : "If we trace the progress of our minds, and 
with attention observe how it repeats, adds together, and 
unites its simple ideas received from sensation and reflection, 
it will lead us further than perhaps we should have imagined. 
And I believe we shall find, if we warily observe the orig- 
inals of our notions, that even the most abstruse ideas, how 
remote soever they may seem from sense or from any oper- 
ations of our own minds, are yet only such as the under- 
standing frames to itself by repeating and joining together 
those ideas that it had from objects of sense, or from its 
own operations about them." — Book 2d, chap. 12, sec. 8. 

From these extracts it appears evident that Locke be- 
lieved all our original knowledge to proceed from perception, 
or, as he calls it, sensation, and consciousness. Whatever 
other knowledge we have, is produced secondarily by adding 
together, repeating, and joining together, the simple ideas 
derived from these original sources. I have before re- 
marked that these ideas are of individuals and are concrete, 
If, therefore, the theory of Locke be correct, all our othe* 



OPINIONS OF LOCKE. 133 

knowledge u created by adding, repeating, and joining 
together these individual and concrete conceptions. 

Now, if this be so, — if it be the law of our nature that the 
human intellect is incapable of attaining to any other knowl- 
edge than the ideas of sensation and reflection, that is, of 
perception and consciousness, — in other words, than the 
knowledge of the qualities of matter and the operations of 
our own minds, then it follows that all our notions which 
cannot be reduced to one or the other of these classes, is a 
mere fiction of the imagination, unworthy of confidence, 
and is, in fact, no knowledge at all. But it is obvious that 
there are in our minds many ideas which belong to neither 
of these classes ; such, for instance, are the ideas of relation, 
power, cause and effect, space, duration, infinity, right and 
wrong, and many others. Can these be produced by the 
uniting, joining, or adding together our conceptions of the 
qualities of matter, or of our own mental acts ? Let any 
one try the experiment, and he will readily be convinced 
that they can be evolved by no process of this kind. It 
will follow then, if the theory of Locke be admitted, that 
these notions, which I have above specified, and all others 
like them, are mere fancies, the dreams of schoolmen or of 
fanatics, ha vino; no real foundation, and forming no sub- 
stantial basis for science, or even valid objects for inquiry. 
Nothing, then, can be deemed worthy of the name of science 
or knowledge, except the primitive data eithor of perception 
or consciousness, or what is formed by adding, uniting, join- 
ing together, these primitive cognitions. Hence, the iieaa 
of which I have spoken, such as those of space, duration, 
infinity, eternity, cause and effect, all moral ideas, — nay, 
the idea of God himself, — are the figments of a dream, and 
all that remains to us is merely what we can perceive with- 
out and be conscious of within. This was the conclusion 
at which many men arrived at the close of the last century 
12 



134 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 

Inasmuch as taeir principles were said to be derived from 
Locke, he has sometimes been considered the foi Aider of 
the sensual school. 

It is, however, to be observed, that Locke did not perceive, 
much less would he have admitted, the result to which hia 
doctrines led. He speaks of the ideas to which I have 
alluded, such as space, power, &c, as legitimate objects of 
human thought, and gives quite a correct account of their 
origin. Thus, speaking of power, he remarks : " The mind 
being every day informed by the senses of the alteration of 
those simple ideas it observes in things without, and taking 
notice how one comes to an end and ceases to be, and an- 
other begins to exist which was not before ; reflecting, also, 
on what passes within itself, and observing a constant change 
in its ideas, sometimes by the impression of outward objects 
on the senses, and sometimes from the determination of its 
own choice ; and concluding, from what it has always ob- 
served to have been, that like changes will for the future 
be made in the same things by the same agents, and by 
the like way considers in the one thing the possibility of 
having any of its simple ideas changed, and in another the 
possibility of making that change, and so it comes by that 
idea which we call power." — Book 2, chap. 21, sec. 1. 

Here we perceive that Locke acknowledges the existence 
of ideas or knowledges derived neither from sensation nor 
reflection, and gives a very intelligible account of their 
origin. It is obvious that the idea of power is not derived 
from the senses ; we neither see, nor feel, nor hear it. It 
is not an operation of the mind, therefore is. not derived 
from reflection. And, besides, comparing, adding together, 
uniting, are acts of the mind, wholly different either from 
perception or consciousness. It is evident, therefore, that 
Locke, when he examined the ideas in his own mind, ob- 
served among them many which neither perception n r con- 



OPINIONS OF LOCKE. 135 

gciousness could give; and he, perhaps carelessly, accounted 
for their origin by the use of the indefinite expressions, 
'•' takes notice of," " concludes," "comes to the idea," &o, 
We see, therefore, that Locke went beyond his own theory, 
and really saw what his theory declared could not be seen. 
Had he pursued a different method, and first observed the 
ideas of which we are conscious, and afterwards investigated 
their origin, his system would probably have been greatly 
modified. He, however, pursued the opposite course ; first 
determining the origin of our ideas, and then limiting our 
ideas by the sources which he supposed himself to have 
exhausted. •- 

The manner in which Locke was led into this error is 
apparent. He had been at great pains to refute the doctrine 
of innate ideas, and to show that the human mind could 
have no thought until some impression was made upon it 
from without. It was also obvious to him that the Only 
objects which we are able to cognize are matter and mind. 
He compared the mind to a sheet of white paper, entirely 
blank until something is written on it by a power external 
to itself. This, however, although the truth, is only a part 
of the truth. As I have before remarked, if the sheet of 
paper had the power of uniting the letters written upon it 
into words, and these words into discourse, and of proceed- 
ing forever in the elimination of new and original truth, it 
would much more accurately represent the intellect of man. 
This illustration of a sheet of white paper evidently misled 
our philosopher, and prevented him from giving due prom- 
inence to the originating or suggestive power of the mind. 

This brief mtice of the opinions of Locke seemed neces- 
sary, especially since so great and important conclusions 
nave been deduced from his doctrine. The whole Bubject 
has been treat id in a most masterly manner by Cousin, ia 



136 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 

his Review of the Philosophy of Locke, to whicl. I would! 
specially refer the student. 

But te what conclusion are we led by this brief examina- 
tion of the theory of Locke? We have seen that, on tha 
supposition that all our ideas are derived from perception 
and consciousness, a large portion of the most important 
ideas of which the human soul is conscious must be aban- 
doned as the groundless fictions of the imagination, having 
no foundation in the true processes of the understanding. 
On the other hand, we know from our own consciousness 
that these ideas are universally developed in the human in- 
tellect as soon as it begins to exercise independent thought. 
We must, therefore, conclude, that the theory of Locke is 
imperfect, and that it does not recognize some of our most 
important sources of original knowledge. It is, then, our 
business to inquire for some other sources besides those 
recognized by Locke. 

REFERENCES. 

Sources of our knowledge — Locke, Book 2, chap. 1, sec. 3, sec. 4, 
«ec. 5 ; Book 2, chap. 12, sec. 8, chap. 22, sec. 1, 2, 9. 

Suggestion a power of the mind — Reid, Inquiry, chap. 2, sec. 7 ; Int. 
Powers, Essay 3, chap. 5 ; Essay 2, chap. 10, 12. 

Examination of Locke's Theory — Stewart, vol. i., chap. 1. 

Before all others. — Cousin's Examination of Locke's Philosophy, chap 
I, 2, 3, 4. 



SECTION II. — THE NATURE OP ORIGINAL SUGGESTION, OR 
THE POWER OF INTUITIVE COGNITION. 

Locke has truly stated that all the substances to which 
in our present state we are related are matter and mind. 
By perception we obtain a knowledge of the qualities of the 
one, and by consciousness a knowledge of the operations of 



ORIGINAL SUGGESTION 137 

^ie oth ir. Each is distinct and complete withm itself, and 
each terminates definitely at its own appropriate limit. 

The thought, however, thus awakened, does not thus ter- 
minate. The mind of man is endowed not only with a 
receptive, but also with what may be called a suggestive 
power. When the ideas of perception and consciousnes3 
terminate, or even while they are present, a new series of 
mental phenomena arises by virtuo of the original power 
of the intellect itself. These phenomena present them- 
selves in the form of intuitive cognitions, occasioned by the 
ideas of consciousness and perception, but neither produced 
by them nor in any respect similar to them. They may be 
considered acts of pure intellection. To the ideas of per- 
ception or consciousness there by necessity belongs an 
object either objective or subjective. To those ideas of the 
intellect I think no such object belongs. Hence they could 
not be cognized originally either by perception or conscious- 
ness. They could not exist within us except we w T ere 
endowed with a different and superior intellectual energy. 
We can give but little account of these intellections, nor 
can we offer any proof of their verity. As soon as they 
arise within us, they are to us the unanswerable evidence 
of their own truth. As soon as we are conscious of them, 
we know that they are true, and we never offer any evidence 
in support of them. So far as our powers of perception 
and consciousness are concerned, the mind resembles in 
many respects a sheet of white paper. Here, however, the 
analogy terminates. There is nothing in the paper which 
in any respect resembles this power of intuitive knowledge 
of which we here speak. 

What we here refer to may, perhaps, be best illustrated by 

a familiar example. A child, before it can talk, throws a 

ball and knocks down a nine-pin. By perception aided by 

memory it derives no other ideas beside? those of a «N>l?:ug 

12* 



X38 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 

ball and of a falling ninepin. This is all that the senses 
coull give it. It might be all that would be apparent tc 
the mind of a brute. But is this the case with the child? 
Far otherwise. There arises in his mind, by virtue of its 
own energy, the notion of cause and effect; of something in 
the ball capable of producing this change, and of something 
in the ninepin which renders it susceptible of this change. 
He instinctively cognizes a most important relation existing 
between these two events. Still more, he has an intuitive 
belief that the same event can be produced again in the 
same way. Relying on this belief, he sets up the ninepin 
again, and throws the ball in the confident expectation that 
it will produce the same result as at first. There has thus 
been created in his mind, not only the relation of cause and 
effect, but the important conviction that like causes will 
produce like effects. In consequence of the relations which 
have thus been revealed to him, he sets a value upon his 
toys which he did not before. The same idea is developed 
as soon as the infant puts his finger in the candle. He will 
not try the experiment a second time. He immediately 
obtains a knowledge of the relation of cause and effect, and 
that the same cause will again produce the same effect. 
He does not see this relation ; it is not an object of percep- 
tion, nor is it an operation of the mind. He does not feel 
it when he is burned. As soon, however, as he cognizes 
the relative ideas, the relation in which they stand to each 
other presents itself to him as an intuitive cognition. 

I have here used an illustration from external objects. I. 
however, by no means assert that in this manner we first 
arrive at the knowledge of cause and effect. The same idea 
is evidently suggested by every act of voluntary motion. 
A child wishes to move his hand ; it moves, but perhaps not 
m the right direction. He tries again with better success. 
At last he accomplishes his object. Heie is, perhaps, the 



ORIGINAL .SUGGESTION. 139 

most striking instance of this relation which he ever wit- 
nesses, and it is brought home directly to his own conscious- 
ness. He is conscious of the act of volition, he knows thai 
he wills ; this mental act is followed by a change of position 
in his hand, and by motion in something with which his 
hand comes into contact. This succession of events, the for- 
mer of which is within the cognition of his own conscious- 
ness, and the latter of his perception, would be sufficient t« 
give occasion to this intuitive knowledge at a very early 
period. 

It may be proper to observe, that although this power of 
original suggestion is developed and perfected with advanc- 
ing years, yet it commences with the first unfolding of 
the intellect. Both the perceptive and the suggestive 
powers belong to the essential nature of a human mind 
Were a child destitute of the power of intuitive cognition, 
even at a very early age, we should know that it was an 
idiot. If, for instance, it manifested no notion of cause and 
effect, but would as soon put its fingers into a candle the 
second time as the^first, we should be convinced that it waa 
not possessed of a normal understanding. Nay, we form 
an opinion of the mental capacity of a child rather by the 
activity of its suggestive than of its perceptive powers. It 
may be blind or deaf, or may suffer both of these afflictions 
together ; that is, its perceptive powers may be at the mini- 
mum, and yet we may discover that its intellect is alert and 
vigorous, and that it discovers large powers of acquisition 
and combination. Such a ctse occurs in the instance of 
Laura Bridgman, a blind mute, whose suggestive powers are 
unusually active, and who has, with admirable skill, been 
taught to read and write, so that she is at present able to 
keep a journal, and correspond with her friends by letter. 

With respect to these ideas of suggestion, or intuitkn, two 



140 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 

important remarks are made by Cousin. I gi\e his idea* 
here, rather than his words. 

1. " Unless we previously obtained the idea of perception 
and consciousness, we could never originate the suggested or 
intuitive cognitions. If, for instance, we had never observed 
the fact of a succession, we could never have obtained the 
idea of duration. If we had never perceived an external 
object, we should never have obtained the idea of space. Ii 
we had never witnessed an instance of change, we should 
have had no idea of cause and effect. As soon, however, as 
these ideas of perception and consciousness are awakened, 
they are immediately either attended or followed by the 
ideas of suggestion. We perceive, then, that, chronologi- 
cally considered, the ideas of perception and consciousness 
take precedence. They appear first in the mind, and, until 
they appear, the others could have no existence. It was 
this fact which probably gave rise to the error of Locke. 
Because no other ideas could be originated except through 
means of the ideas of perception and consciousness, he in- 
ferred that our knowledge could consist of nothing but these 
ideas, either in their original form, or else united or added 
to each other. The fact, on the contrary, seems to be, that 
our suggested ideas are no combination or modification of 
our receptive ideas ; they form the occasions from which the 
mind originates them by virtue of its own energy. We are 
so made, that, when one class of ideas is cognized, the other 
spontaneously arises within us, in consequence of the con- 
stitution of the human intellect. 

2. "But, secondly, when we have thus obtained these 
ideas of suggestion, we find that their existence is a neces- 
sary condition of the existence of the very ideas by which 
they are occasioned. Thus, as I have said, tae motion of 
an external world is the occasion in us of the id<?a of spaco 
but, when we have obtained the idea of space, v;o see ihtf 



ORIGINAL SUGGESTION. 141 

it is a necessary condition to the conception of an external 
world ; for, were there no space, there could be no external 
world. If we had never witnessed a succession of events, 
we should never have obtained a conception of duration. 
Having, however, obtained the conception of duration, we 
perceive that it is a necessary condition of succession ; for, 
were there no duration, there could be no succession. And 
again, had we never observed an instance of change, we 
should never have attained the conception of cause and 
effect, or of power. But the conception of power once 
gained, we become immediately sensible that, had there been 
no power, change would have been impossible. We thus 
learn that, logically considered, the suggestive idea takes 
the precedence, inasmuch as it is the necessary condition of 
the idea by which it is occasioned." 

With these remarks of this most acute and very able meta- 
physician I fully coincide, so far as they apply to a large por- 
tion of our ideas of suggestion. I think, however, that there 
is a large class of our intuitive cognitions, of which the second 
of these laws cannot be affirmed. Take, for instance, our 
ideas of relation and degree, arising from the contemplation 
of two or more single objects. I do not see how it is true 
that the relation is a necessary condition to the existence of 
the bodies which occasion it, or that the idea of degree is a 
necessary condition to the existence of the qualities by which 
it is occasioned. I dissent with diffidence from an author 
so justly distinguished ; nevertheless, in treating on this, aa 
on any other subject, I am bound to state fully the truth as 
it presents itself to my individual consciousness. 

In order the more fully to illustrate this subject, I have 
thought it desirable to present a number of instances in 
which these original suggestions or intuitions are occa- 
sioned by the ideas of perception and consciousness. I by 
uo means attempt an exhaustive catalogue. Jt will be suffi- 



142 INTELLECTUAL PHIL SO PUT. 

cient for my purposes, if I am able to present sach a vkw 
of the subject as will direct more definite attention than has 
generally been given to this part of our intellectual consti- 
tution. 

It has seemed to me that these intuitions might be class- 
ified as follows : 

I. Th Dse unaccompanied by emotion. 

II. Those accompanied by emotion. 

I. Those unaccompanied by emotion are, 

1. Those occasioned by objects in a state of rest. 

2. Those occasioned by objects in the condition of change, 

II. Those accompanied by emotion are, 

1. iEsthetic ideas. 

2. Moral ideas. 

REFERENCES. 
Cousin, chaps. 2, 3, and 4. 



SECTION III. — IDEAS OCCASIONED BY OBJECTS IN A STATE 
OF REST. 

"We may contemplate objects in a state of rest either as 
one or many.- Let us, in the 'first place, examine a single 
object. 

Suppose, for instance, a solid cube is placed before me. 
I look at it, and perceive its color and form ; I handle it, and 
perceive that it is hard and smooth, and that its form is the 
same as I have discovered by sight ; I strike it, and it gives 
forth a sound ; I attempt to smell it and taste of it, and 
thus derive all the knowledge of its qualities which I am 
able to discover. I reflect on these various acts of percep- 
tion, and thus obtain a knowledge of the state of my mind 
when performing these mental acts. I have then all the 



ORIGINAL SUGGESTION. 143 

knowledge which I can derive from perception and con- 
sciousness. Had I no other mental energies, my knowl- 
edge would here arrive at an impassable limit. If, however, 
we reflect upon our own cognitions, we shall be conscious of 
much important knowledge occasioned by these mental acts, 
which the acts themselves do not give us. 

I look up:>n the cube ; I perceive it to be extended ; I re- 
move it to another place. What is there where the cube 
was a moment since 7 What is that which the cube occu- 
pies, and in which it is contained '? It can be occupied by 
matter, or left vacant. I become conscious of the fact that 
it is a condition necessary to the existence of all matter. 
Abolish it, and I abolish the possibility of an external uni- 
verse. I call it space. What is it ] It has no qualities 
that can be cognized by the senses. It is neither an act 
nor an affection of the mind. It is not matter ; it is not 
spirit. It differs from both in every conceivable particu- 
lar. The existence of matter is made known to us by the 
senses. Space is cognizable by none of them. It is neither 
seen, nor felt, nor heard, nor smelled, nor tasted. Matter 
is a contingent existence ; it may or may not exist here, or 
it may not have existence anywhere. I can conceive of an 
era in duration when it never existed. I can conceive of 
another era when it will cease to exist. Not so of space ; 
as soon as I form a notion of \t I perceive it to be neces- 
sary. I cannot conceive of its non-existence or annihilation. 
This cube and all other matter is limited / and is so from 
necessity ; space is by necessity unlimited. Matter being 
limited, of necessity has form ; space has no form, for it has 
no limitation. The conception of a body, however vast, 
suggests an image ; space suggests to us no image. We find 
ourselves, therefore, in possession of a conception, revet led 
to us neither by perception nor consciousnes?, which, never- 
theless, is cognized by the mind, from the necessity of ita 



144 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 

own nature. Without perception it would never have been 
cognized. Chronological] y, it is, therefore, subsequent to it. . 
As soon, however, as I obtain this conception, I know that 
it is a necessary condition to the existence of that which is 
perceived. It is necessary physiologically ; for without 
space there can be no matter. It is necessary psychologi- 
cally : for we cannot in our minds conceive of matter with- 
out conceiving of space as a necessary condition of our 
conception. 

But let us reflect upon this idea somewhat more atten- 
tively. We all have a knowledge of what is meant by space ; 
we cannot easily confound it with any other idea; yet no 
one can describe it. It has no qualities. It holds no rela- 
tion to our senses, or to our consciousness. What are its 
limits 1 As I have before said, it has none. The house in 
which I am writing occupies space, and is contained in space. 
The earth and the whole planetary system move in space. 
The whole sidereal system either moves or reposes in space 
We pass to the utmost verge of the material universe — space 
still stretches beyond, unmeasured, immeasurable. We have 
approached no nearer to its confines than at first ; for, were 
such creations as now exist to be multiplied forever, space 
would be yet inexhaustible. What do we call this idea, 
which, by the constitution of our minds, emerges necessarily 
from this conception 1 It is the idea of the boundless, the 
immensurable, the infinite. It is an idea which we cannot 
comprehend, and yet from which we cannot escape. We 
may, perhaps, remember how, in childhood, we wearied our 
feeble understandings in the attempt to grasp it. It is at 
present as far beyond the power of our comprehension as at 
first, yet we find the mind ever tending towards it. It is an 
idea neither of perception nor consciousness, nor can it be 
evolved from any union or combination of those ideas. It 
evolves itself at once, on our conception of space, from >he 



ORIGINAL SUGGESTION. lib 

energies of the mind itself. Having been once formed, it 
holds its place independently in the mind, and depends not 
for its existence on any other idea. 

Again ; I cannot be conscious of my own existence with- 
out being conscious at the same time that I am an individ- 
ual, separate not only from the rest of the material, but 
from the other individuals of the spiritual universe. I am 
in myself, a complete form of existence, distinct from every 
other form that has existed, or that may exist. When I 
obsorve the cube, it suggests to me the same idea, that of 
unity. I retain this idea of oneness, apart from any object 
which at first suggested it. It cannot be called a quality. 
It is not an energy of the mind ; yet it is an idea which 
immediately arises within us, on such occasions as I have 
suggested. 

CO 

It may, however, be proper to remark, that this idea of 
unity is always relative. Ii always has respect to the 
relation in which w r e contemplate an object. An individual 
human being is one ; yet it possesses one body and one 
spirit, and without both of these, in our present state, it 
would not be a human being. A human soul is one ; but, in 
order to be a human soul, it must be possessed of various 
faculties, each one of which may be considered distinctly. 
A regiment is one, and yet it could not be a regiment, un- 
less it were composed of several distinct companies united 
under a single commander. A company is one ; but it is 
made up of single individuals, as privates, subalterns, cap- 
tain, etc. We thus see that, in speaking of unity, the rela- 
tion in which we contemplate the object is always to be 
taken into view ; and that there is no absurdity or contra- 
diction in saying, that it is one in one relation, ind many in 
another relation. 

Let us look once more upon our cube. We perceive in it 
form, solidity, divisibility, color, etc. These we call c^uali- 
13 



H6 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 

ties of matter, or the powers which it possesses of affecting 
us in a particular manner. But is either of these qualities 
matter? Are all of them combined matter? Were we to 
say that color and form and divisibility, etc., are matter, or 
substance, would this assertion express the idea of which wo 
are conscious when we reflect upon this subject ? So far is 
this from the fact, that the assertion would seem to involve 
an absurdity. We always say of a material object, it is 
something divisible, solid, colored, etc. ; plainly distinguish- 
ing, in our conceptions, the something in which the qualities 
reside, from the qualities which reside in the something. We 
thus find ourselves possessed of the two ideas, essence and 
attribute, substance and quality. We know that there must 
be one, whenever we perceive the other. But where does 
this idea of substance come from ? Surely neither from the 
senses nor from consciousness ; yet we all have attained it 
It must have originated in the mind itself. We perceive 
the quality. The mind affirms the existence of the sub- 
stance, and affirms it not as a contingent, but as a necessary 
truth. 

It is almost superfluous to remark, that we arrive at the 
same idea from consciousness. Consciousness testifies to the 
existence of mental energies. From this knowledge, the 
mind at once asserts the existence of an essence to which 
these energies pertain. Were there no mental energios, we 
could never become cognizant of a spiritual substance ; but, 
having been cognizant of it, we know that it is a necessary 
condition to the existence of the energies of which we are 
conscious. 

2. These instances are sufficient to illustrate the nature of 
the cognitions which are suggested by the energies of the 
mind itself, when we contemplate a single object. Let us 
now suppose several objects, seme of similar and others af 



ORIGINAL SUGGESTION. 117 

dissimilar qualities, to be present before us. Suppos6 + Lem, 
for instance, cubes, pyramids, cylinders, etc. 

If I observe them singly, each will furnish me with all 
the primary and suggested ideas to which I have just now 
referred. I observe several to be of one form. I compare 
their aggregate with unity, and there arises in my mind the 
idea of number. As soon as I have formed this notion, I 
find myself abstracting it from the cubes, and from every 
Other object, and treat it as a conception by itself, capablo 
of enlargement or diminution at my will. So readily does 
this conception separate itself from the objects which gave 
occasion to its existence, that, in the rudest conditions of 
society, men give names to the several ideas of number, and 
very soon form a symbolical language to represent them. 
Every one knows that his ideas of number were originally 
derived from the observation of a plurality of objects ; and 
yet no one. thinking of ten, twenty, thirty, to say nothing 
of thousands and millions, ever associates these ideas with 
any actual existences. We always consider them as abstract 
ideas, yet ideas of the most fixed and determinate character. 
But these ideas are not objects of perception. We neither 
see nor feel nor taste number; yet perception occasions 
these ideas. We know number as soon as the occasions 
which suggest it present themselves. 

In enumeration, we always proceed by unity. We re- 
peat unity until we arrive at a certain aggregate, which we 
then consider as a unit. Thus, in our enumeration, we 
repeat unity, giving a different name to every increasing 
aggregate, until we arrive at ten. We then make this our 
unit, and add to it other similar units, until we arrive at a 
hundred ; in the same manner, we make this our unit until 
wc arrive at a thousand, then to a million, etc. Suppose, 
now. I carry on this process to any assignable limit, can I 
exhaust my idea of number ? Suppose I proceed until mj 



148 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 

powers of computation fail, have I jet proceeded so far that 
I cannot add to the sum millions upon millions 1 Can I 
conceive of any number so vast that I cannot add to it ad 
many as I choose ? We perceive this to be impossible. 
Here, again, we recognize the same xlea which lately 
evolved from our notion of space. It is the idea of infinity. 
We see that it springs at once, by the operation of our 
minds, from every conception capable of giving occasion 
to it. 

Again; we cannot observe a number of objects at the same 
time, without recognizing various relations which exist be- 
tween them. I see two cubes possessing in every respect 
the same qualities. Hence arises the relation of identity 
of form, color, etc. Others possess different qualities ; hence 
the relation of diversity. .When the forms are precisely the 
same, or when they occupy exactly the same space, there 
arises relation of equality. When they occupy different 
measures of space, there arises the relation of inequality. 
These latter relations are specially used in all our reason- 
ings in the mathematics. All our demonstrations in this 
science are designed to show that two quantities are either 
equal or unequal to each other. 

Still further, I perceive that two or more objects are not 
in contact. Space intervenes between them, and we recog- 
nize the relation of distance. Each one has a definite rela- 
tion in space to all the others. Hence arises the relation 
of place. Place always refers to the position which a body 
holds in respect to other bodies. Were there but one body 
in space, we could not from it form any notion of place. 
As soon as other bodies are perceived, and their relation to 
it recognized, we obtain this idea respecting it. Thus, I 
say this paper lies where it did ten minutes since. Here I 
refer to the table and the objects upon it, whose position in 
relation to the paper is the same as it was before, leaving 



ORIGINAL SUGGESTION. 14$ 

cut of account altogether the fact that the table has moved 
with the diurnal and annual revolution of the earth. A 
man in a railroad car will say that he has not changed his 
place for half a day, when he knows that lie has been 
moving at the rate of thirty or forty miles an hour. 

Again ; we perceive that, of several cubes, the first occu- 
pies a larger portion of space than the second, and the 
second a larger portion than the third. All of them are 
red, but the tinge of one is deeper than that of another. 
Hence arises the relation of degree. This idea is so univer- 
sally recognized, that, in all languages, it is designated by 
a special form, entitled degrees of comparison. 

But it is not necessary that I pursue this subject further. 
I think that every one must recognize in his own mind a 
power of originating such knowledges as these, as soon as 
the occasion presents itself. They are not ideas of percep- 
tion or of consciousness, but ideas arising in the mind, by its 
own energies, as soon as we cognize the appropriate objects 
which occasion them. Having once obtained them, thev 
immediately sever themselves from the objects which occa- 
sion them, and become ideas of simple intellection, which 
we use as abstract terms in all our reasonings. 

REFERENCES. 

Space — Locke, Book 2, chap. 13; Cousin, chap. 2; Reid, Essay 2, 
chap. 19. 

Space and body not the same — Locke, Book 2, chap. 18 ; Cousin, 
ehap. 2. 

Infinity from space — Locke, Book 2, chap. 13 ; Cousin, chap. 3 ; Reui, 
Essay 2, chap. 19. 

Unity — Locke, Book 2, chap. 7. 

Substance and solidity — Locke, Book 2, thap. 4 ; Cousin, cnap 8 

Number — Locke, Book 2, chap. 16, 17 ; Cousin, chap. 3. 

Relation — Locke, Book 2, chap. 25. 

Identity and Diversity — Locke, Book 2, chap 27- 

Place — Locke, Book 2, chap. 13. 

13* 



150 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 



SECTION IV. — SUGGESTED IDEAS OCCASIONED BY 1HB 
CONSIDERATION OF OBJECTS IN THE CONDITION OP 
CHANGE. 

Every one must be aware that motion, change, progress, 
*nd decay, are written upon everything within us, and 
upon everything without us. It is natural to suppose that 
a variety of suggestions, or intuitive cognitions, would be 
occasioned by the development of this universal law. 

Our thoughts are in a condition of perpetual change. 
Thought succeeds thought ; one conception follows another 
without a moment's cessation, at least, during our waking 
hours, from the commencement to the close of our present 
existence. The idea of incessant change is essential to 
our notion of life. Abolish it, and the result is universal 
death. 

Destitute of memory, we should be unconscious of these 
changes, and cognizant only of the thought or emotion of 
the present moment. Endowed with memory, however, we 
become aware of the fact that the thought of which we are 
now conscious is not the thought of which we were con- 
scious a few moments since ; and that the thoughts ol 
yesterday, or of boyhood, are very different from the 
thoughts of to-day. 

The same knowledge is also derived from the acts of per- 
ception in connection vith memory. We perceive a cloud 
overspreading the heavens. When last we looked upward 
all was clear ; now all is lurid. Again, the cloud is dissi- 
pated, and all is sunshine. We arise in the morning, and 
light is gradually stealing over the heavens. Soon, the sun 
irises, and all nature is aroused to life. In a few hours it ia 
mid-day, and animal and vegetable droop wfth the ex- 
cessive heat. Soon, the sun declines; it sinks beneaU tha 



DURATION. 151 

fecrizon ; we are fanned by the breezes of the evening, and 
behold the blue expanse above us dotted with innumerable 
stars. Had we no memory, we should be cognizant of the 
existence of but one phenomenon, — that which presented 
itself to us at a particular moment. Our existence in con- 
sciousness would be limited to. the smallest conceivable por- 
tion of duration. Constituted as we are, we become aware 
that one event succeeds another ; and we hold the fact of 
this succession distinctly within our knowledge. 

From both consciousness and perception, then, united with 
memory, we acquire a knowledge of succession; that is, 
that some other event or events preceded that of which we 
are now cognizant. But another idea is immediately occa- 
sioned in a human mind by the idea of succession, different 
from it, and from any which we have thus far considered. 
It is the idea of duration. I cannot define it. I cannot 
explain it. Yet it belongs to the very elements of human 
thought. We can neither think nor act without taking it 
for granted. It is a condition of existence ; for, were there 
no duration, nothing could exist. It is neither an idea of 
perception nor of consciousness. We cannot cognize it by 
our senses, nor is it an operation of the mind. The intel- 
lect seizes upon it as soon as we recognize the fact of 
succession. No one can give any further account of its 
origin. No one can enumerate its qualities, for it has no 
qualities. Yet, every one has the idea, and no one can con- 
ceive of its non-existence. 

We perceive, in th-'s case, the difference between the 
chronological and the logical order of these two ideas. 
Chronologically, the idea of succession takes the precedence; 
for, unless we had first cognized the fact of succession, we 
should never have obtained the idea of duration. But when 
both have been acquired, we immediately perceive that dura- 
tion is the necessary condition to succession ; f xr } without 



J 52 INTELLECTUAL PHILGSOPHk". 

duration, succession would be impossible. Logically, there- 
fore, duration takes the precedence. 

The first measure of duration seems naturally to be the 
succession of our own thoughts. A portion of duration 
seems long or short, in retrospect, according to the number 
of events to which we have attended, and the tone of mind 
or the degree of earnestness with which we have observed 
them. But it is obvious that these elements vary greatly 
with the same individual at different times, and with dif- 
ferent individuals at the same time. We, therefore, seek for 
some definite portion of duration, as the unit by which we 
may measure with accuracy any other limited portion. 
Such natural unit is found in the revolution of the heavenly 
bodies; and hence we come to measure duration by days, and 
months, and years, or by some definite portion of these 
units. Duration measured in this manner we call time. 
If I do not mistake, we mean, by time, that portion of dura- 
tion which commences with the creation of our race, and 
which will terminate when " the earth and the things therein 
shall be dissolved." 

But let us take a year, and add to it by unity. We soon 
arrive at a century. Taking this as our unit, we add again, 
until we arrive at the era of the creation. We go backward 
still, until we even find ourselves in imagination at the com- 
mencement of the sidereal system. Duration is still unex- 
hausted ; it is yet an unfathomable abyss. We conceive 
of ages upon ages, each as interminable as the past duration 
of the material universe, and cast them into the mighty 
void ; they sink in darkness, and the chasm is still unfathom- 
able. We go forward again, and add century to century, 
without finding any limit. We pass on until the present 
lystem is dissolved, and duration is still immeasurable. We 
add together the past and the future term of the existence 
of the universe, and multiply it by millions of millions and 



DURATION. 15& 

ire have approached no nearer than at first to the limits of 
duration. We are conscious that it sustains no relations 
either to measure or limit. It is beyond all computation 
made by addition of the finite. It is thus, from the contem- 
plation of duration, that the idea of the infinite arises in a 
human intellect from the necessity of its nature. 

This idea of the infinite, to which the mind so necessar.ly 
tends, and which it derives from so many conceptions, ia 
one of the most remarkable of any of which we are cogni- 
zant. It belongs to the human intelligence, for it arises 
within us unbidden on various occasions, and we cannot 
escape it. Yet it is cognized by none of the powers either 
of perception or of consciousness. It is occasioned by 
them ; yet it differs from them as widely as the human mind 
can conceive. The knowledge derived from these sources 
is by necessity limited and finite. This idea has no rela- 
tions whatever to anything finite. It has no qualities, 
yet we all have a necessary knowledge of what it means. 
Is there not in this idea some dim foreshadowing of the rela- 
tion which we, as finite beings, sustain to the Infinite One, 
and of those conceptions which will burst upon us in that 
unchanging state to which we are all so rapidly tending 1 

Of cause and effect, and of power. 

I proceed to the consideration of this important subject. 
I have no expectation of adding anything new to a discus- 
sion, which, from the earliest history of philosophy, has 
engaged the earnest thought of the ablest men. I shall not 
Dnter upon the consideration of many of those questions 
which emerge out of it. Were I to attempt to present 
them ever so briefly, I should transcend the limits to which a 
work of this kind must be restricted. I shall content my- 
self with stating the views which, after some reflection, have 
presented themselves to my own mind. 

Let us, then, commence with the observation of a single 



154 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 

phenomenon ; that is, a case of change. Suppose, for in- 
stance, I observe that water, which a few minutes since waa 
fluid, has now become solid. I find myself unable to think 
of this change as an isolated fact, or as the commencement 
of a series. It must have had antecedents. Nor is this 
all. The antecedents must have stood in a certain relation 
to it. Suppose I attempt to think of this change as occur- 
ring while all the conditions of the existence of the fluid 
remained throughout just as they were at the beginning. I 
cannot think it. There is a book on one end of my table. 
I leave the room for a moment, and, on my return, I find it 
at the other end of the table. I ask what moved it. I am 
answered, nothing. I am told that all the conditions of the 
existence of that book had been absolutely the same during 
its change of place ; that no agency of any kind had been 
exerted upon it, and yet the book had been removed from 
one place to another. I am obliged to reply I cannot think 
it. It is as unthinkable as the proposition that two straight 
lines can at the same time be parallel and at right angles 
with each other, or that two circles can cut each other in 
more than two points. I intuitively know that there must 
have been a cause which rendered the water hard, which an 
hour ago was fluid ; and a cause which removed the book 
from one place to another. If I am asked why I think in 
this manner, I can give no account of it. I am obliged to 
say I am so made. To think in this manner seems to me 
necessary to the normal condition of a human intellect. 

This, however, is but one form of causation ; the case in 
which the antecedent and consjquent, the cause and effect, 
are both brute matter. A variety of other cases deserves to 
he considered. 

2, Brute matter may be the cause of change in spirit 
Thus, I open my eyes and see a tree. A sonorous body m 
Struck, and I hear a sound. Here brute matter produces in 



155 



me a change. A new condition of mind is produced within 
me, which I denominate a knowledge. This could not have 
existed but for the presence of the material objects which 
have caused it. Under some circumstances, the effect is as 
'nevitable as when both cause and effect are material. The 
.ffect, however, is here modified by conditions unknown in 
he former case. For instance, a considerable portion of 
a&y Jife is spent in sleep, during which time the effect of 
ordinary agents upon my mind is suspended. Again ; no 
knowledge is created in my mind except through the medium 
of consciousness. But consciousness is indirectly subject to 
the will. If, by the effort of the will, it is earnestly directed 
to another object, the tree may be present, or the sonorous 
body may be struck, and no appropriate knowledge is created 
in my mind. Here, we see that a new element enters into 
the conditions of cause and effect, by which the universal 
relation of the one to the other is considerably modified. 

3. Spirit or mind may be the cause of change in matter. 
The simplest instance of this mode of cause and effect is in 
the movement of the limbs. I put forth my hand and take 
a pen between my fingers. I dip it in the ink and proceed 
to write a sentence. Here, I am conscious of an effort of 
the will. I perceive the movement of my hand, and I 
observe on the paper precisely the words which I intended 
to write. In the normal condition of my spiritual and mate- 
rial faculties, this effect is universal. But I observe hero 
another peculiarity. The event to be produced is foreseen 
by the mind, and it takes place precisely according to its 
predetermination. I ought, however, to add that, though 
this event is always foreseen and intended, yet, by education, 
the connection between the volition and the material result 
is rendered more perfect. Thus, when I began to write, I 
at first made nothing but straight lines and could net for 
some time make them as correctly as I intended. By prac- 



156 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 

tice, however, I rendered the connection between the voli- 
tion and the physical act more and more perfect, so that 
they cama at last to correspond with considerable accuracy 
to each other. 

4. Spirit may be the cause of change in spirit. This 
includes two cases : First, when we effect changes in the 
condition of our own minds ; and, secondly, when we effect 
changes in the minds of others. 

1. When we effect changes in our own minds. For in- 
stance, I am thinking of some subject ; I resolve to banish 
it, and think of something else ; I succeed. The first thought 
is displaced; it is to me, for the time, as if it had never 
existed, and I now think of something entirely different. 
Here, however, we may observe a considerable range in the 
conditions of the phenomena. In the first place, much de- 
pends on the general, and, also, on the particular energy of 
my will. It may be constitutionally feeble, or, by neglect, 
I may have lost the power of self-control. I try to banish 
the present thought, and it will not leave me, or, if it leaves 
me for the moment, it immediately returns. Again, I may 
know that I ought to banish the thought which now occupies 
me, and I resolve to do it ; but, on the other hand, the 
thought is pleasant to me, and I am unwilling to relinquish 
it. Either no result, or a very imperfect one, is accom- 
plished. Or, again, some peculiar thought has seized upon 
me with overwhelming power, and, under my present cir- 
cumstances, I cannot displace it by any effort of my will. 
For instance, suppose I am a miser. I have cultivated 
within myself the habit of esteeming wealth the greatest of 
earthly blessings, and have given it the first place in my 
affections. By a sudden calamity, a large portion of ray 
property is destroyed. Thinking of it will not restore it. I 
desire to banish the subject from my mind. I cannot; it is 
present with me by day and by nigh \ tormenting me, and 7 



157 

cannot help it. Here the pcwer of the will is conditioned 
by the present state of the mind itself, which state is the 
result of successive previous volitions. We hence perceive 
that the act of the will here is subject to conditions wholly 
unknown in the third case considered ; that is, where the 
mind acts on material substances. 

2. The mind may produce change in other minds. Here 
the conditions become more complicated. I will suppose 
myself in the possession of some truth, which is, in its na- 
ture, adapted to effect a change in the mind of another ; for 
instance, a change in his course of action. Now, the effect 
produced will depend both on the state of my own mind and 
the state of mind in those whom I address. Thus, I may con- 
ceive the truth imperfectly, feebly, so as to leave an indefinite 
impression on others. I may conceive of it adequately, but 
I may be unaffected by it myself, and may have no particu- 
lar desire to affect others. Or, again, having a clear con- 
ception of it myself, I may have an all-absorbing desire to 
cause others to be affected as I am affected myself. Each 
of these conditions will probably vary the effect produced 
on the minds of others. Or, in this last case, supposing 
myself to be ever so much in earnest, the effect of my com- 
munication may be different in the case of each auditor. 
The effect will, in each case, be determined by the state of 
every man's mind. In one I may create joy, in another sor- 
r.w ; one may be pleased, another displeased ; one may re- 
solve to take the course which I recommend, and another to 
resist it to the uttermost. Here, the same cause produces 
diametrically opposite effects; the effect in each individual 
case being determined by the present condition of the mind, 
and its relation to the truth which I exhibit. 

Now, concerning these various cases, I would offer a few 
suggestions. 

1. So far as 1 am able to discover, these are all leg:ti- 
14 



158 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY- 

mato instances of cause and effect. Whether [hare included 
them all, I pretend not to determine, but I think no exhaust- 
ive classification can be formed without including those 
which I have mentioned. 

2. The link which binds together the cause and the effect 
is in all cases, hidden. This is, I believe, universally 
granted. We may observe the cause and then the effect, 
but a veil is in all cases spread over the nexus between 
them, which it has not been given to the human mind to 
penetrate. 

3. When I examine these several cases, they seem to me 
very unlike. The matter affecting and affected is, in the 
different instances, exceedingly dissimilar, and the results 
produced are very widely different. What can be more 
unlike than the freezing of water by cold and the change 
of the moral character of a human being by the presenta- 
tion of truth ? 

4. Hence, I would ask, may there not be different kinds 
of causation ? May not causation in matter be a totally dif- 
ferent nexus from causation in mind ? Were we endowed 
with faculties capable of knowing perfectly all the phenom- 
ena, might we not find them as dissimilar in themselves as 
they are in their effects 1 

5. Such being the possibility, can it be legitimate to rea- 
son from causation in the one case to causation in the other; 
that is, to conclude that because causation in matter is one 
thing, therefore causation in spirit is the same thing? Is 
not the argument for fatalism deduced from a view of the 
indissoluble nature of cause and effect founded on this as- 
sumption ? 

6. Granting, what is evidently true, that, under precisely 
the present conditions, any given cause mus' inevitably 
produce, whether in matter or spirit, a definite ind certain 



EFFECT. 1511 

effect: are there not many things predicable of the inevita- 
bleness in the one case which cannot be predicated of it 
in the other ? For instance, I present to a miser a case of 
distress, precisely calculated, in its nature, to awaken benevo- 
lent emotions in the mind of an intellectual and moral being 
in a normal condition. But, by a course of previous volun- 
tary action, he has so changed his mind from its normal 
condition, that the recital serves no other purpose than to 
harden his heart against suffering. In his present condition, 
this result as inevitably follows from my appeal, as his 
death would follow from plunging a knife into his bosom. 
Now, granting the inevitableness in both these cases to be 
the same, is the nexus between the two events of the same 
character? Suppose me to know the inevitableness to bo 
the same, is the moral character of the two actions equal ? 

If, then, finally, the nature of causation in matter and 
causation in mind be so unlike, when finite beings alone are 
concerned, that we cannot reason from the one to the other ; 
how much greater must be the disparity when the cause is 
infinite, and the effect produced is on the finite ! How, es- 
pecially from causation in matter, can we reason respecting 
the acts of the Infinite Spirit, whose thoughts are not as our 
thoughts? It would surely be a humbler and wiser philos- 
ophy, if we believe in a Universal Cause of perfect holiness 
and perfect love, to receive the facts of his government as 
he has revealed them, assured that in the aoysses of his 
wisdom, far past our finding out, mercy and truth go before 
his face, and justice and judgment are the habitation of his 
throne. 

The notion of cause, by the constitution of the human mind, 
involves the idea of power. It is the logical condition to 
this idea ; without it, the idea of cause could not exist. It 
is that in the cause by virtue of which ; t pr duces its effect 



160 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 

It is a cause simply, and for no other reason, than that in 
it resides the power. 

The notion of power is always fixed and invariable. Wa 
cannot conceive of it as, under the same circumstances, 
sometimes producing an effect and at other times produc- 
ing none. When we find such an antecedent, we at once 
determine that it is destitute of power, and that it is not, in 
this case, a cause. It is essential to our conception of 
power, that under the same conditions it shall invariably 
produce the same change. 

Hence, we perceive the difference between invariable suc- 
cession and cause. Cause is invariable succession with the 
additional idea of power. Cousin's illustration here is ap- 
posite. "I sit in my room," he observes, " and wish 
that I could hear a certain air. Some one in another room 
plays it. I wish for it again, and it is played again. But 
this is a very different thing from taking up an instrument 
and playing it myself. The one is a case of succession, the 
other of cause and effect. In the latter, I recognize my 
own volition, not merely as the antecedent, but the cause of 
the sounds." And we may observe, still further, that the 
power, by reason of its in variableness, is the sole reason of 
the invariableness of the succession. Were not power such 
as I have suggested, the succession might intermit, vary, 
and fluctuate, indefinitely. 

This idea of cause and effect, and power, is not derived from 
experience, as some philosophers have asserted. It springs by 
necessity from the original constitution of the human mind. 
When we observe a change we cannot do otherwise than 
think of the cause. The change furnishes the occasion for 
the creation of this idea ; but, as soon as we have arrived at 
it, we know that the existence of the power residing in the 
cause was the necessary condition to the existence cf tho 
effect. It arises as truly on the first observation of a change. 



POWER. CAUSE AND EFFECT. 161 

as on the thousandth. It is as obvious to the apprehension 
of children as of adults. If i* was not apparent in the first 
instance, it could not be in the thousandth. If, in the first 
instance, we recognize nothing but succession, and had no 
idea of cause and of power, the second instance would be 
precisely like it, and the third, and thus indefinitely. 
Every one remembers the case reported of Dr. Beattie. He 
wrote, on the prepared soil of his garden, the name of his son, 
a very young child, and sowed some delicate seeds in the 
lines which he had thus traced. In a few days the child 
came running to inform him of the wonder which he had 
discovered — his own name plainly growing in the flower- 
bed. The father, for a while, pretended to believe that there 
was no cause for the phenomenon, but that the letters had 
grown in their present form of themselves, and he attempted 
to create this belief in his son. It was all in vain ; the child 
could not believe it. The necessary relation of cause and 
effect was as deeply fixed in his mind as in the mind of his 
father. Dr. Beattie then made use of this illustration to 
teach him the necessary existence of a First Cause. The 
same incident, I observe, has been related of the father of 
Gen. Washington. 

But, it may be asked, has experience nothing to do w T ith 
our investigation of the laws of cause and effect ? I answer, 
nothing whatever with our original idea of cause and of 
power. This is given us in the very constitution of our 
intellectual nature. If it were not so given, we should have 
no conception of a cause, and should, of course, have nc 
occasion to institute any inquiries concerning it. 

But, although experience, or more properly experiment, 
furnishes us with no original ideas of causation, yet, when this 
idea has been given us, and w r e know that by necessity the 
cause of a certain phenomenon must exist, it is by experiment 
alone that vye are able tc discover what :hat cavse is Ex* 
14* 



162 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 

periment, therefore, follows directly upon the suggestion of 
causation in any particular instance. This may be clearly 
illustrated by. observing the principles which govern us in 
carrying forward a case of philosophical investigation. The 
steps in such a process are. I think, the following : 

1. We observe an instance of obvious and manifest change, 
or, in the language of philosophers, a phenomenon. We are 
bo made that we cannot think of this change without also 
thinking of the cause which produced it. Every one knows 
that to speak of a change producing itself, or of a change 
occurring with no relation whate\er to any other event, i.i 
not only to speak nonsense, but to utter what is unthink- 
able. 

2. This notion of cause, which, in these circumstances, 
has arisen within us, involves the idea of power. It is, in 
fact, this power which makes it a cause. But, since power 
is a fixed and unchangeable idea, we cannot conceive of it 
without conceiving of it as always acting in the same way 
under the same circumstances. Hence, we know that in 
whatever antecedent the power resides, that antecedent 
must be the cause of the phenomenon. And, on the other 
hand, when we observe any antecedent to be fixed and in- 
variable, in that we suppose the power to reside ; that is, 
we affirm this antecedent to be the cause of the consequent 
effect. 

3. In order, then, to ascertain the fixed and invariable 
antecedent, we institute our experiments. We place the 
phenomenon under every variety of antecedents. When we 
find an antecedent which, under all circumstances, invaria- 
bly precedes the change, we assume this to be the cause. 
Henceforth, these two events hold this relation to each 
other. 

4. Hence, we perceive that if two distinct and separata 
events were the stated and 'invariable antecedents of mothel 



POWER, CAUSE AND EFFECT. 103 

event, it would be impossible to determine which of the two 
was the cause. One would fulfil the conditions of the prob 
lem as well as the other. Hence we see that our knowl- 
edge of causation is never absolute, being always conditioned 
by the actual progress of human knowledge. Thus, so far 
as human observation has gone, the event A has always 
been the invariable antecedent of the event B. But subse- 
quent investigations may reveal the fact that A is not the 
invariable antecedent, or that the antecedency of A is condi- 
tioned by some other event with which it must be combined 
in order to produce the effect. Thus, it was observed that 
water boiled at 212° of Fahrenheit, and it was, for a long 
time, supposed that this law was universal. It was, how- 
ever, subsequently ascertained that it boiled on the tops 
of high mountains at a lower temperature. Hence it was 
necessary to condition the former law by the pressure of the 
atmosphere, and say that water boils at 212° at the level 
of the sea. If it should be found that the electrical condi- 
tion of the atmosphere had any pow T er to modify the result / 
it would be necessary to add this new condition to the origi- 
nal law. 

It may be useful to illustrate these remarks by observing 
the manner in which we proceed in determining any particu- 
lar cause. I will take, for example, the freezing of water. 

I perceive, on some occasion, for the first time, that 
water, which I left fluid at sunset last evening, is solid this 
morning. I, first of all, inquire whether it be the idertical 
substance which was a short time since fluid. I examine 
the vessel in which it is contained ; I ascertain that no human 
being has approached it ; that all the other water in the same 
vicinity has undergone the same transformation. I am 
satisfied that here is a case of legitimate change. 

U'rom the constitution of my mind. I am unable to conceive 
that this change could have been produced without an tide- 



164 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 

quate cause. Had the wacer remained through tl 3 night, 
with all its relations to all other things unchanged, it must 
by necessity have continued in its original condition. This 
is to me as obvious as that if a body be at rest, it must forever 
remain at rest, unless some power from without compel it to 
assume the condition of motion. There must, therefore, bo 
some cause for this event. The instinctive impulses of my 
nature lead me to inquire for this cause. This inquiry I con- 
duct by experiment or trial. In what manner shall I proceed ? 
I first observe all the antecedent events which I am able 
to discover. For instance, the water was fluid in daylight; 
it became solid in darkness. Darkness may have been the 
cause of its solidity. It became solid in the open air ; it 
returned to its former fluidity as soon as it was brought intc 
the house. Change of place may have been the cause cf 
the phenomenon. Or, again, I observe that there was a 
sudden change of temperature during the night, and that 
the mercury in the thermometer fell from 40° to 20°. This 
change of temperature may be the cause of w T hich I am in 
search. I proceed to institute a series of experiments for 
the purpose of determining which of these is the invariable 
antecedent of the phenomenon. I find that water, in various 
instances, becomes solid in light as well as in darkness, and 
that again it becomes fluid in darkness when it had become 
solid in daylight. Darkness cannot, then, have been the 
cause. I examine the other hypothesis. Was change of 
place the cause ? I find that, without any change of place, 
the water which was solid at sunrise becomes fluid at noon. 
Change of place will not, therefore, account for the phenom- 
enon. Was the cause, then, the change of temperature'? 
I subject water to this trial. I find that everywhere, 
and under all circumstances, when the temperature fails 
below 32° Fahrenheit, water becomes solid, whether by 
day or by night, and without any regard to locality, a 



POWER, CAUSE AND EFFECT. 165 

therefore arrive at the conclusion that the temperature of 
32° is the cause of the freezing of water, and that water 
has the susceptibility of being frozen at this temperature 
The two events thus stand to each other in the relation of 
cause and effect. I have discovered the cause of the event, 
er, in other language, I have accounted for a phenomenon. 
It is on these principles, and in this manner, that we proceed 
in any legitimate case of philosophical investigation. 

Having thus obtained the idea of causation and of power, 
and having learned how to determine the cause in any par- 
ticular case, the necessity of our intellect obliges us to pro- 
ceed a step further. As we look about us, we observe that 
everything bears witness to the exertion of power. The 
universe is subject to perpetual change, and change without 
the idea of power is unthinkable. Day and night, sun- 
Bhine and storm, summer and winter, spring and autumn, 
are names indicative of changes and classes of chancres 
oiore numerous and more complicated than the human mind 
can comprehend. Power is, then, one of the most univer- 
sal ideas of which we are able to conceive. But let us look 
at the case a little more carefully. We say that atmospheric 
air, moisture, and sunlight, are me causes of vegetation. 
Let us, then, examine the growth of a vegetable, from the 
putting forth of its first leaf, through all the changes of its 
development, to its beautiful flower and its ripened fruit. 
Let us examine a single leaf, and investigate all its func- 
tions, and their exquisite adaptation to cooperate in the 
general design. Let us generalize *his case, and we find 
the surface of our globe to be thickly covered with just 
euch instances. We cannot fail to observe that the beauty 
o,nd adaptations of the effect infinitely transcend any attri- 
bute possessed by the physical cause. We cannot conceive of 
the gases of the atmosphere, the drops of water, and the rays 
of the sun, as adequate causes of all these wonderful results* 



166 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 

We conceive by necessity of some cause or causes umcen, 
beyond, directing, controlling, energizing, those perceiveJ 
causes, in which, at first view, this powe* e„jmed to reside. 

To ascend thus from apparent to unseen causes, from 
physical to supernatural power, seems to be the necessary 
tendency of our intellectual nature. The human mind is 
hardly capable of so intense degradation as not to recognize 
the existence of some power unseen, by which all that is 
seen is governed and sustained. Hence have arisen the 
innumerable systems of idolatry wmch have prevailed among 
men. Every nation recognizes some invisible powers as the 
causes of visible changes, and hence as objects of worship. 
The very absurdity of many of these systems teaches us 
this tendency in the clearest possible manner. The more 
absurd the object of worship, the stronger is the proof that 
the necessities of the human intellect demand some cause 
to which the changes of visible nature can be referred ; and 
that it will accept the most preposterous notion of an ulti 
mate cause, sooner than believe that no such cause exists. 

But the human mind, having advanced thus far, proceeds 
by necessity a step further. As we contemplate the vari- 
ous phenomena of the universe, we observe that no class of 
facts, nor any single fact, is isolated. All are parts of one 
plan, the development of one idea. The vegetable and 
animal kingdoms, the laws which govern organic and inor- 
ganic nature, and the relations which subsist between them, 
all represent portions of one idea, which must have been 
conceived by a single intelligence before anything visible 
was created. Hence we are called upon to account for thia 
perfect harmony in this infinite variety of parts, the perfect 
order which exists among beings in themselves so diverse 
from each other. We can account for it only on the sup- 
position that the cause of causes is not many, but one, in- 
finite in power and -fisdoin, the sufficient reason why every 



167 



thing is, and why it is as we now behold it. That this 
opinion has universally prevailed among men who have 
addicted theuuoi . ^s to thinking, is manifest. The philoso- 
phers who paid an outward respect to the classic mythology 
acknowledged and reverenced the Supreme Divinity. And 
everywhere, among men of reflection, it has been acknowl- 
edged that, if there are causes beyond those which we per- 
ceive, there must be one universal Cause, all-powerful, all- 
wise, all-good, self-existent, and, of course, eternal. 

But, supposing this to be granted, other questions emerge 
from this belief. If there be a universal, all-pervading Cause, 
what is the nature of his agency ? In material causation, is 
he the sole operator in every change, so that every event is 
an immediate act of the Deity, or the result of such an 
%ct 7 Or, on the other hand, has he constituted matter with 
such attributes and relations that all which we see is the 
necessary consequence of the original creation, from which 
the Creator has withdrawn, and over which he now exerts no 
agency? And, again, in spiritual changes, similar questions 
arise. Does the free will of man act independently of any 
controlling agency of the Deity, or is the Deity the cause 
of spiritual change, as in the first supposition above in 
regard to matter ? Or has he so created spirits that the 
chan yes of which we are conscious proceed by necessity 
from the elements of our original creation? These Ques- 
tions, and many more, arise from the conception of an uni- 
versal, all-pervading, and all-powerful Cause. 

With respect to these inquiries, I would remark, in gen- 
eral, that I believe the most opposite answers to either of 
them can probably be proved to be true, by arguments 
which it would be difficult to confute : and that the clearest 
reasoning may lead us to results at variance with the sim- 
plest dictates of our moral and intellectual nature. To what 
conclusion, then, shall we arrive 1 I arewer. to the belief 



168 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 

that the subject is clearly beyond the reach of our under- 
standing. The point in which the infinite and the finite 
come in contact has been, and must ever be, hidden from 
mortal eyes. It is the dictate of reason and religion that 
the Deity is all-wise, all-good, and all-powerful, and there- 
fore that he is the only being capable of governing the uni- 
verse which he has made. It is not possible that such a 
being should govern it too much. On the other hand, we 
have the evidence ot our own consciousness that we are per- 
fectly free. We know that such a being as the Deity must 
carry on his wise and just and merciful intentions, and that 
he must carry them on through the agency of his intelli- 
gent creatures ; we know, also, that we are perfectly free 
to act as we choose, and that this freedom is an essential 
element of our moral responsibility. Of the manner in 
which these agencies cooperate, I think we must be content 
to remain in ignorance. 

RE FE RENCES. 

Idea of power- -Locke, Book 2, chap. 7, sec. 8. 
Power, active and passive — Locke, Book 2, chap. 21, sec. 2. 
Cause and effect — Locke, Book 2, chap. 26. 
Iflea of a God — Locke, Book 4, chap. 10, sec 1 — 8. 
Cause and effect — Reid, Essays on In. Powers, Essay 6, chap. 6. 
Power, cause and effect — Reid, Essays on Active Powers, Essay 1. 
Locke's idea of power examined — Cousin, chap. 4. 
Notion of power derived either from the objective or subjective — 
Cousin, chap. 4. 



SECTION" V. — SUGGESTED IDEAS ACCOMPANIED BY EMOTION. 

We have thus far considered those ideas which arc sug- 
gested to us by the contemplation of oojects which pioduce 
In us no emotion. They are purely intellectual, and have 



SUGGESTED EMOTIONS. 169 

no othei effect upon us than to increase our knowledge. 
Thus, the ideas of duration, cause and effect, space, and a 
variety of others, are simple knowledges, and produce in us 
no ulterior state of mind. 

Were we merely intellectual beings, these would be all 
the suggestive ideas of which we need be conscious. But 
w r e find the case to be otherwise. We are made not only to 
know, but to feel. As we look abroad upon the w T orld, we 
find ourselves not only capable of knowing that things are or 
are not, but also of deriving pleasure or pain from the con- 
templation of them. Who does not know with what eager 
gaze the eyes of the child are turned towards the rainbow l 
Who has not been deeply moved at beholding the glory of a 
summer's sunset? Again, it is undeniable that we are 
variously affected by our observation of the actions of our 
fellow-men. Some of them awaken in us admiration, re- 
spect, gratitude and love ; others fill us with disapprobation, 
disgust and abhorrence. These various cognitions, and the 
emotions which they create, belong, I suppose, to the class 
of original suggestions. They may be divided into two 
classes : 1, Ideas of the beautiful and the sublime, or ideas 
of taste ; and, 2, Moral ideas. 

1. Ideas of the beautiful and sublime. 

Let us commence the exposition of this subject by an 
example. Suppose there were placed before us an antique 
marble vase of exquisite workmanship. We look at it, and 
observe its color, and form, and proportions. We feel of it, and 
discover that it is solid, smooth and heavy. We test it by 
our other senses, and ascertain whether or not it possesses 
any qualities which they can recognize. When we have 
done this, we have obtained all the knowledge concerning it 
which our perceptive faculties can give. 

Let us now place by the side of it a rough block of mar 
ble. of a similar magnitude. The senses give us, as before, 
15 



170 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 

a knowledge of its color, form, solidity, roughness or smooth-* 
ness, sonorousness, taste and smell. This knowledge is all 
that our perceptive faculties can give us in either case. 
Were we merely intellectual, that is, unemotional beings, 
no other impression besides that of knowledge would bo 
produced upon us. Both of these objects would be con- 
templated with equal indifference ; nay, the rough block 
might be preferred, if we could devote it to a purpose of 
utility of which the other was not susceptible. Thus, we 
are told that, not unfrequently, the remains of a beautiful 
statue are found imbedded in mortar, in the wall of a peas- 
ant's hovel, in the neighborhood of an ancient city on the 
plains of Asia Minor. 

Let us now observe these objects together, and remark 
the feelings which they awaken within us. We cannot fail 
to observe that the one has a power of affecting us very dif- 
ferently from the other. As we look upon the one, we are 
conscious of an emotion of exquisite pleasure. We attach 
to it a value such as wealth can scarcely estimate. We look 
upon the other with total indifference, or, it may be, with 
disgust, and cast it away as an incumbrance. To the one 
we are powerfully attracted, while from the other we are 
repelled. We recognize in the one the quality of beauty, 
of which we perceive the other to be destitute. A child at 
an early age would make this distinction. Every one 
knows how strongly even very young persons are attracted 
by brilliant colors and agreeable forms. Yet this emotion 
cannot be denned. It arises unbidden at the contemplation 
of outward objects of a particular character, under such 
circumstances as have been appointed by the Creator to 
occasion it within us. 

This idea is not, however, cognizable directly by the 
genses. We neither see, nor hear, nor feel, nor taste beauty; 
nor is it an energy of our minds. Yet, whenever we per- 



EMOTIONAL SUGGESTIONS. 171 

55?tve certain external objects, there arises within us the 
knowledge that they are beautiful, and we are conscious of 
the subjective emotion which this quality occasions. In 
this respect it resembles the other suggested ideas. They, 
as we have seen, are not cognized by the senses, but the 
cognitions derived from the senses are the occasion of 
their existence. So, in this case, as soon as we are con- 
scious of the perceptions, we are conscious of the cogni- 
tion of this quality, and of the emotion which this quality 
produces. 

The emotion of the beautiful is suggested by an infinite 
variety of objects in the external world. It arises from the 
contemplation of form, of color, of motion, of proportion, 
and, in fact, from almost every object in nature. I shall 
not here enter into an illustration of these obvious facts. 
It is sufficient merely to allude to them, reserving the more 
extended discussion to another place. 

If we observe the various objects which give occasion to 
this emotion, we shall observe them to be exceedingly dis- 
similar. The objects are unlike, but the emotion is the 
same. We thus learn to distinguish the emotion produced, 
from the causes which produce it. Having done this, we 
ascribe to any object this quality, if it produces in us this 
particular emotion. Thus, the mathematician speaks of 
the beauty of a demonstration ; the critic, of the beauty of 
a metaphor ; the moralist, of the beauty of a social relation ; 
and the mechanic of the beauty of a machine. In each 
case, the emotion of the beautiful is awakened in the mind 
of the speaker, and he ascribes the quality of beauty to 
that which produces it. 

There is also another emotion, suggested by the contem- 
plation of material and immaterial objects, in many respects 
similar to the emotion of beauty. The mode of its origin 
is the same. It is suggested, in the first instance, ] >y objects 



172 INTLLLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 

in nature , it is a source of exquisite pleasure ; it arisen on 
a great variety of occasions ; but yet the emotion itself is 
always the same. Its character may perhaps be best illus- 
trated by an example. He who has stood by the sea-side in 
a storm may perhaps remember the ceaseless roar of the 
waves, the rude shock of the surge, which, heaving itself 
against the cliff, made the solid rock to tremble beneath 
him, and the tossing of the white foam as it flew from the 
crest of the billow. All this might have been equally well 
perceived by the dog at his feet, or the wild sea-bird, as, 
screaming in gladness, it dashed into, the thickest of the 
spray. But these are not all the ideas that arise within the 
bosom of the man. Besides all these, he feels an emotion 
of awe, and yet of exultation; of solemnity, and yet of 
excitement ; of humility when he thinks of his own little- 
ness, and yet of greatness when he yields himself up to the 
conceptions which crowd upon him. His imagination roams 
Dver the ocean ; he muses upon its matchless power, its vast 
sxtent, its deceitful smiles, and its sudden wrath, until he ia 
bewildered in the throng of his thick-coming fancies. Every- 
one recognizes in this the emotion of sublimity. 

Here, as before, we perceive that this idea, and the emo- 
tion which accompanies it, are entirely different from the 
simple perceptions by which they are occasioned. They 
could not arise without the perceptions, and the perceptions 
would be perfect without them. They are called forth un- 
der peculiar circumstances in obedience to the principles 
of our constitution, and, having once arisen, they remain 
with us, irrespective of the circumstances that gave them 
birth. 

Having, however, obtained this idea, with its correspond- 
ing emotion, we find that it is excited by a variety of spirit- 
ual conceptions, as well as external perceptions. The infi- 
nite in space and duration, immaculate justice, heroic self 



MORAL SUGGESTIONS. 17? 

denial, self-sacrificing love, and a large variety of the more 
majestic moral qualities, excite this emotion in a very higV 
degree. How dissimilar soever they may be in themselves, 
if they awaken this emotion we class them under the same 
designation, and call them all sublime. Hence we speak 
of the sublime in nature and in art, of the sublime in elo- 
quence, in poetry, and in action. The external objects 
which awaken this emotion are dissimilar, but, producing 
a similar effect, we comprehend them all under the same 
classification. 

Of moral ideas derived from suggestion. 

Thus far we have observed chiefly those suggested ideas 
which may be derived from irrational objects. It would ba 
natural to expect that suggestions of a peculiar character 
would be occasioned by observing the actions of our fellow- 
men, intelligent and accountable agents. 

Thus, foi instance, I find myself in possession of a cer- 
tain amount of power. I can move my limbs in any direc- 
tion. I know, however, that these motions are not uncaused ; 
they are consequent upon, and caused by, the energy of my 
own will. I look further, and find that my will does not 
act at random. I will to perform an action, in order to ac- 
complish a certain purpose. So long as I am sane, that is, 
governed by the established laws of my being, I find these 
two antecedents, will and motive, always preceding everjf 
act of power which I exert. 

If I observe the acts of others, I come to the same con- 
clusion. I cannot conceive of an act of a man in a normal 
condition, without considering it as emanating from his will ; 
nor can I conceive of an act of the will uninfluenced by any 
motive. Hence, when we contemplate the act of an intelli- 
gent being, we always involve in our conceptions not mercy 
the outward change, but also the will in which it originated 
and the motive by which the will was governed 
15* 



174 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 

But c ir acts commonly influence the happiness, or affect 
the rights of our fellow-men. Whenever we observe such 
an act, there arises in the mind a wholly new idea, unlike 
any which we have thus far examined ; it is the idea of 
right or wrong. A particular quality in that action is im- 
mediately recognized. Perception gives us nothing but the 
external act ; but by virtue of our constitution there is sug- 
gested to us a moral quality, something very different from 
the external action itself; and the cognition of this quality 
is always attended by certain subjective affections. These 
subjective affections are the most important of any of which 
we are susceptible. The faculty of the mind which gives 
rise to these objective cognitions and subjective affections 
is called conscience. It belongs, to moral philosophy to 
treat of this subject at large. 

I might mention various other instances of original sug- 
gestion, but the above will suffice to illustrate my meaning. 
It will, I think, be obvious, from what I have said, that, by 
virtue of this power, we possess a distinct and most impor- 
tant source of knowledge. The ideas which we derive in 
this manner are unlike those either of perception or con- 
sciousness, yet they are no less truly clear and definite, 
and really lie at the foundation of all our subsequent 
knowledge. They seem, more than any other of our ideas, 
to result from the exertion of the pure intellect. We 
know them to be true, without the intervention of any 
media. The intellect with which we are created vouches 
for their truth, and we cannot conceive them to be false. 

If it be asked how we may improve this faculty, I answer 
that in a matter so simple, when our knowledge is intuitive, 
rules seem almost useless. \. few suggestions may, how- 
ever, not be wholly without advantage. 

It must be obvious to every one, that our train of 
thought may follow in the line of our perceptions, or of om 



ORIGINAL SUGGESTIONS. 175 

BQggestions. We may pass from perception to perception 
without heeding the suggestions to which they give occasion ; 
or. detaining every perception, we may follow out to theii 
utmost extent the suggestions which spring from it. The 
former is the habit of the superficial, the latter of the re- 
flective mind. The one cognizes only the facts which arc 
visible on the surface ; the other arrives at a knowledge of 
the hidden relations by which all that is seen is united 
together and directed. Millions of men, before Sir Isaac 
Newton, had seen an apple fall to the ground, but the sight 
awakened no suggestion ; or, if it did, the suggestion was 
neither retained nor developed. He seized upon it at once, 
followed it to its results, and found that he had caught hold 
of the thread which could guide him through the labyrinth 
of the universe. 

If, then, we would cultivate the faculty of original sug- 
gestion, we must exercise it by patient thought. Sugges- 
tions will arise in* our minds, if we will only heed them, 
and they will arise the more abundantly the more carefully 
we heed them. We should attend to our own intuitions, 
examine their character, determine their validity, and follow 
them to their results. We should have due respect for the 
teachings of our own individual intelligence. What other 
men have thought is valuable, but its chief value is, not to 
save us from the labor of thinking, but to enable us to 
think the better for ourselves. If, with patient earnestness, 
we thus follow out the suggestions of our own minds, we 
shall find them enriched and invigorated. Instead of drink- 
ing forever at the fountains of other men, the mind will 
thus discover a fountain within itself. " If," said Sir Isaao 
Newton, "I am in any respect different from other men, it 
is in the pover of patient thought." 



176 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 



REFERENCES. 

Origin of moral ideas — Locke, Book 2, chap. 2, sees. 1, 2 ; book 2, 
chap. 21, sec. 42 ; book 2, chap. 28, sec. 5. 

Cousin, chap. 5. 

Necessity of patient thought in cultivating original suggestion - Locks 
Book 4, chap. 3, sec. 22—30. 

Abercrombie, Part 4, MS. I. 




CHAPTER IV. 

ABSTRACTION. 

In oi ler the more definitely to understand the nature of 

Abstraction, let us review the ground which we have passed 
over, that we may the more distinctly perceive the point 
from which we are about to proceed. 

We have seen that by perception we cognize external 
objects, and that by consciousness we cognize our internal 
energies. Our knowledge, however, derived from both of 
these sources, is individual and concrete. I perceive a tree ; 
it is an individual tree. I perceive fifty trees ; they are all 
individuals, differing in various respects from each other 
but each a distinct and unique object of perception. So, 
also, I am conscious of an act of memory, that is, of remem- 
bering a particular object. I am conscious of remembering 
another. Each act is numerically, and as I think of it, dis- 
tinct from every other act. Our conceptions of these acts 
are of the same character as the acts themselves, and, with 
these powers alone, every idea would be as distinct from every 
other idea as the grains of sand on the sea-shore, without 
either cohesion or fusibility. 

The same remark applies in substance to the ideas derived 
from original suggestion. Of these ideas some I know are 
general, and can be referred to no particular object. Such 
are the ideas of space, duration, infinity, and perhaps some 
Others. These are cognized as universal and uueessar) a* 



178 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 

soon as the mind begins to think ; and, as they are at the 
beginning, so they remain forever, unsusceptible of either 
change or modification. Another class of our suggestive 
ideas is, however, of a different character. I perceive, for 
instance, a case of change, as the rolling of a ball, or the 
falling of a pin. The idea of cause and power at once sug- 
gests itself, but it is of the power requisite to. produce this 
effect, and this only. It is the idea, not of causation in 
general, but of causation in thi3 individual instance. Should 
I see another case of change, the same notion of causation 
would arise, but it would again be of an individual change, 
and would be wholly disconnected from that which I ob- 
served before. That is, every idea of causation would be 
indissolubly connected with that change by which it was oc- 
casioned, and thus our knowledge of causation would be 
nothing more than the remembrance of these several isolated 
and separate facts. 

If, then, our intellectual powers were limited to those 
which we have already considered, it is easy to imagine 
what must be our condition. We could perceive individual 
objects, and be conscious of the exertion of individual ener- 
gies, or of the putting forth of certain intellectual acts. 
Every object of perception would be distinct and discon- 
nected, and equally so the conceptions which it originated. 
Our knowledge would be all of individuals, and every object 
must have its own proper name, or that which is equivalent 
to it. When we speak of different men, we call them John, 
James, William, meaning by each of these terms to desig- 
nate an individual unlike every other in existence. Such 
would be our knowledge if we had no other faculties than 
those already examined. 

But, if we look into our own minds, and observe the minda 
of other men, we find our condition to be the reverse of al] 
this. Proper names, or those used to designate individuals* 



ABSTRACTION. 179 

we the rarest words ir_ a language. We use thein only to 
point out persons and places, and when these are not' alluded 
to such words are never employed. In works of science 
they have no place whatever, unless we find it necessary to 
refer to some historical fact. Language is made up alto- 
gether of words designating classes of things, as book, house, 
tree, idea ; or of qualities, as red, white, blue, warm, cold ; 
or of actions, as walk, ride, think, give, take ; or of relations, 
as by, to, upon, &c. When we use these words we have 
no reference to individuals, and desire merely to indicate 
classes of things, actions, qualities or relations, signified by 
these terms. So universally is this the case, that, when we 
wish to individualize a particular object, we are obliged to 
use several descriptive terms, in order to distinguish it from 
its class. Thus, if I wish to direct attention to a particular 
table, I am obliged to refer to it as my table, of such a 
color and size, or standing in such a place, or bought of 
such a person. In this manner we select an individual 
from a class, in order to make it an object of particular 
attention. 

We observe, then, what our conceptions would be, were 
we endowed with no other powers than those which we have 
thus far considered. We see, on the other hand, what our 
conceptions actually are. With no other powers than those 
of perception, consciousness, and original suggestion, our 
ideas would be all of individuals. But we find, in fact, that 
they are the reverse of this— that they are all of classes. 
We naturally inquire, How does :his change take place 7 How 
do we pass from the conception of individuals to the concep- 
tion of generals ? How, from single, isolated, concrete facts, 
do we form notions of classes, or of genera and species '} 
It is to this subject that we are now to direct our attention 

Abstraction is that faculty of the mind by which froir 



180 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 

individual, concrete conceptions, we form general and ab< 
Btract ideas. 

Though I speak of abstraction as a faculty of the mind, 
1 am aware that it is, in many respects, unlike those of 
which I have thus far treated. It gives us no new knowl- 
edge, like perception, consciousness and original suggestion ; 
it only modifies the knowledge which we have acquired by 
these faculties. It does not, like them, perform its office 
by a single act. On the contrary, it accomplishes its object 
by a succession of acts, each one different from both the 
others. Yet, as it performs a function which could be per- 
formed by no other power, — as it actually does something, 
and as a faculty is the power of doing something, — I think 
we cannot err in designating it by the same general name 
which is given to the other intellectual energies. 

In the mental process by which we pass from individuals 
to generals, three separate acts can be distinctly perceived ; 
these are analysis, generalization and combination. 

1. Analysis. I have remarked, when treating of concep- 
tion, that we have the power of retaining a notion of any 
object of perception after the object is removed, precisely 
similar to that which we formed when we were perceiving 
it. For instance, I saw a rose yesterday. I cognized it 
then as present, and observed its color, form, magnitude, 
as a distinct and concrete object, uniting in itself these 
various and dissimilar qualities. I retain to-day a notion 
of it as an object absent, uniting in itself all the various 
qualities which I cognized in it as present. The difference, 
subjectively, is merely between the notion of the object 
as present and the notion of it as absent. Now, when T 
make the conception of this rose an object of reflection, 1 
am able to separate, in thought, these qualities from each 
other ; that is. to think of each quality separately, without 
thinking of the others. Thus, I may think, exclusively, of 



ABSTRACTION. 181 

its color, then of its form, its weight, & j. ; at each tin* 
banishing from my mind the conception of all the othci 
qualities. I look upon a lily ; I form a conception of it in 
the same manner, and in the same manner can I. in thought, 
separate its qualities one from the other, making each one 
of them the exclusive object of attention. I behold a moun- 
tain as present. I form a conception of it as absent. I can 
think exclusively of its form, or its magnitude, or its color, 
or its trees, or of the strata of which it is formed. The act by 
which we thus, in thought, separate the elements of a con- 
crete conception from each other, and consider each one by 
itself as a distinct object of thought, is commonly termed 
abstraction. I prefer to call it analysis, as this word suf- 
ficiently designates its character, and distinguishes it from 
the other acts which with it go to make up the process of 
abstraction. 

I wish it, however, to be distinctly remembered, that this 
act. in every case, has for its object an individual conception. 
I have analyzed my conception of a rose, and considered its 
qualities separately. But they are the qualities of this 
particular rose, and nothing more. The case is the same 
when I analyze a lily, or a mountain ; it is not the analysis 
of any and every lily, or mountain, but only of that one 
which I saw and of which I now form a conception. The 
color is not the color of roses, or lilies, but only of this par- 
ticular rose, or of that particular lily. The same remark 
applies to the form, fragrance, or any other of its qualities. 
Jt is just the same as if 1, for the first time, saw one of 
these objects, arid were never to see it again. In thought. I 
Beparate each one of its qualities from the other, and then 
the mental act terminates. 

2. Generalization. By analysis I have separated the 
qualities of an individual rose. Suppose I were called upon 
to give to each of them a name; I could do it in no other 
10 



182 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 

manner than by designating each of them by the name of 
the object from which the concrete conception was derived. 
I must call them, for instance, the color, the form, the fra« 
grance, the weight, of the rose A. But suppose, now, another 
rose is presented to me. I analyze the conception which I 
have formed of it as before, and find it made up of color, 
form, fragrance, etc. These qualities now cease to be the 
qualities of the rose A ; they become the qualities of the 
roses A and B. I see a hundred roses. I analyze the con 
ceptions which I form of them, and find the same qualities 
in each. These qualities cease, then, to be the qualities of 
the roses A and B, but become the qualities of roses. 

But I proceed further, and analyze the conception I have 
formed of other objects, as, for instance, of a carnation, a 
peony ; and I find that the color of the rose is also the 
color of these flowers. I observe again, and find that 
cherries, and other fruits present the same color. It ceases, 
then, to be the color of roses, or flowers, or fruits ; and, by 
necessity, separating it from every object in which I per- 
ceived it, I designate it by a particular name, and call it 
red. Again ; I observe a violet ; I analyze the conception 
which I f Drm of it, and call the color, the color of this par- 
ticular violet. I see several violets, all having the same color, 
and then this color becomes to me the color of violets. I 
observe monks-hood, and various other flowers, different 
kinds of fruit, the heavens above me, and many other objects 
clothed in the same color ; and it is no longer the color of 
a violet, or of violets. I give it a name to designate this 
particular quality, and call it blue. Henceforward I think 
of it by itself, without any reference to all, or any, of the 
objects in which I at first detected it. It forms, in my mind, 
a distinct conception. Again; I find that every object 
which 1 perceive has a particular mode of addressing the 
eye Some are red, sorre are blue, some are brown. I 



ABSTRACTION. 183 

eonsider this impression, aside from the >aiioJi 3 objects which 
produce it, and give it a general name, color. 

In this manner we form simple abstract 'deas of the 
several qualities which we observe We derive them origi 
nally from individuals, in the manner above stated ; but we 
conceive of them without respect to any individuals what- 
ever. 

When these simple abstract ideas are thus formed, they 
constitute the alphabet which we use in thinking. As we unite 
the letters of the alphabet into syllables, syllables into 
words, and words into sentences and discourse, so these sim- 
ple abstract ideas, combined into the various forms of com- 
plex conceptions, form the matter which we use in the exer- 
cise of the pow T ers of reasoning and imagination. 

3. Combination. The process in this case is exceedingly 
obvious. Having obtained these simple abstract ideas, dis- 
connected from any subject in which they originally existed, it 
is manifestly in our pow T er to unite them together so as to form 
any complex conceptions that w 7 e may desire. Thus, to 
refer to the previous instances, I have formed simple abstract 
ideas of red, blue, the form and the fragrance of a rose, the 
color, form, and fragrance of a lily, or violet, the magnitude 
and form of a mountain. It is evident that I may recom- 
bine these different simple ideas just as I choose. I can, in 
conception, unite the form of a rose with the color of a lily } 
and the fragrance of a violet. I should, then, have the 
conception of a wdiite rose with the perfume of a violet. I 
can unite the idea of the form of a mountain with the color 
red, and I then have a red mountain. I may combine tne 
notion of red with the leaves and green with the petals of a 
rose, and I have a green rose with red leaves, &c. 

In this manner we are every moment forming conceptions 
by means of language, either written or spoken. A few 
iays since I read in a newspaper an account of a new variety 



134 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 

of roses -which had been discovered in North Carolina ; it! 
peculiarity consisting in this, that the petals of the flower 
were green. I unite together the simple abstract ideas in- 
dicated by the words, and I have almost as definite concep- 
tion of it as if I had seen it. So, when any new plant, 
or animal, or work of art, is described to us, we immediately 
unite the several simple ideas in the manner indicated by 
our informer, and the conception stands before our minda 
like a reality. 

From this view of the subject, we see that abstraction — 
meaning by this term the three several acts entering into 
this process — is indispensable to the formation of language. 
To make the most simple affirmation by the use of proper 
names, or individual concrete conceptions, such as they 
are delivered to us by perception, consciousness, and orig- 
inal suggestion, is manifestly impossible. We must, by such 
combinations as I have mentioned, form ideas designating 
classes ; or language could not exist. If we examine 
the words of a language, we shall find that, except such as 
designate simple ideas, they are all used to express a group 
of ideas united under a single term. The definition of a 
word analyzes it, and shows the various simple ideas of 
which it is composed. Thus, if we take any words at ran- 
dom, as debtor, creditor, father, brother, friend, country 
patriotism, treachery, murder, robbery, &c, we shall find 
that each of them is composed of several distinct ideas. A 
correct definition gives us every element that essentially 
belongs to the compound conception. 

We thus learn the manner in which the communication 
of thought is rendered practicable. A single word is made 
the vehicle of ever so large a group of conceptions. If, in- 
stead of using such words, we were obliged at length to 
enumerate all the ideas which they designate, human inter- 
course by language must cease. Ths thought now expressed 



ABSTRACTION. 185 

bl a single sentence would require pages Ljt its develop- 
ment, and the multitude of apparently disconnected ideas 
would render the comprehension of an ordinary statement 
almost impossible. 

From these illustrations of the nature of abstraction, it 
appears that the exercise of this faculty may give rise to 
two different classes of conceptions. The first class is 
formed entirely in obedience to our own will. Having 
formed simple abstract ideas, we have the power to unite 
them together in just such compound conceptions as we 
please. We may conceive of the magnitude of a mountain 
with the form and color of a rose ; we have then a concep- 
tion of a rose as great as a mountain. We may unite the 
form of wings with that of a horse, and we have the concep- 
tion of a winged horse. We may go further, and unite in 
one complex conception various distinct images of beauty. 
Thus, Milton, from various scenes which he had beheld, 
selected those portions best adapted to his purpose, and 
formed the complex conception of the Garden of Eden. So 
the sculptor, from several specimens of the human form, 
selects those features which seem best suited to his purpose, 
and unites them in one conception more perfect than any 
which he has seen in actual existence. When we use this 
faculty for these purposes, we call it Imagination. 

But we use this faculty for another purpose. By means 
of it we form all our classifications of the objects of nature, 
and hence it lies at the foundation of all natural science. 
Here, however, we find it acting under different condi- 
tions from those which we have last considered. The ele- 
ments of our complex conceptions were then subject to 
nothing but the will. Our object was to please, and, if this 
was accomplished, our whole end was attained. Here, our 
object is to instruct. We desire our classifications to coin- 
cide with objects in nature, and if they do not our labor m 
16* 



1 46 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 

worse than tn:own away. We are, therefore, restricted 
in our materials to the matters of fact before us. In form- 
ing a complex conception from nature, we must combine 
precisely those elements which nature herself has combined, 
and neither more nor less. In just so far as my conception 
departs from the fact in nature, it is imperfect, superfluous, 
or monstrous. If I am forming a scientific conception of .i 
lion, I must admit into it precisely those elements which 
nature has united in this class of animals. If I form a con- 
ception of a lion at will, I may add to it wings, any color 
that pleases me, and any magnitude that will answer my 
purpose. In the one case, we have the conception of a phys- 
iologist; in the other, of an imaginative sculptor, such as 
designed the winged lions in the temples of Nineveh. 

The manner in which we form the classifications of sci- 
ence may, then, be easily illustrated. Suppose a physiol- 
ogist wishes to form a scientific conception of a horse. A 
specimen is presented to him ; he examines the outward 
appearance of the animal, its form, color, motion; he dis- 
sects it, and examines its internal structure, the peculiarities 
of its skeleton, the number of its bones, their position and 
relations to each other. He takes note of these elements 
with all the care in his power. These various simple ideas 
belong to nothing but this individual specimen, the horse 
A. Let another specimen be in a similar manner exam- 
ined. He notes, as before, all its elementary ideas, and pro- 
ceeds until he has satisfied himself that further investigation 
is useless. But these various elements have now ceased to 
be the elements of any particular horse ; they are the ele- 
ments of the class of animalg whose character he is investi- 
gating. 

He ie. no^ desirous of uniting these several ideas into a 
conception that shall apply not to one or . another horse, 
hut to all horses. He compares these elementary ideas, and 



ABSTRACTION. 187 

finds aoirie of them constant ; that is, belonging to all the 
horses he has seen. Others of them are inconstant ; that 13, 
they belong to some, and not to others. He separates the 
one from the other, uniting in one complex conception all 
the constant elements, and leaving out of his conception all 
that are variable. For instance, the form of the skeleton, 
the number of vertebrae, the structure and number of tho 
teeth, the organs of digestion, etc., are constant. These are 
found to be the same in all. On the other hand, color, size, 
md many other elements, are variable. It is by the union 
}f these constant qualities that he forms his general abstract 
idea of a horse, referring to no horse in particular, but being 
the conception which answers in his mind to that word when 
it is used either by himself or others. In this manner all 
our general conceptions, that is, conceptions comprehending 
a number of similar objects, are formed. That we are 
always conscious of every step of the process, I do not affirm. 
We are so continually performing this mental operation, that 
we give no beed to the manner in which we proceed. If, 
however, any one will pause, and observe his own mental 
operations, I think he will find them such as I have 
attempted to describe. 

I have spoken of the mode in which our general abstract 
conceptions are formed in matters of science. It is proper 
to remark that all men, whether learned or unlearned, pro- 
ceed precisely in the same manner. A common man, in 
forming his notion of a horse, acts just like a physiologist. 
The only difference is, that the one is able to detect a 
greater number of elementary ideas, and is the better able 
to distinguish the constant from the variable. The one ob- 
serves merely the elements which are obvious to the senses ; 
the other, by dissection, examines the organs which perform 
;he functions necessary to the eA.vtence of the animal. The 
difference, then, is> tk\J i\3 observation of the one covers a 



188 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 

larger field, and is mad* with more minute accuracy, than 
the other. Both, however, depend on the same principles, 
and obey the same intellectual impulses. 

It will be readily seen, from what has been remarked, that 
abstraction, or the faculty by which we form classes, is indis- 
pensable to enumeration. Whenever we speak of any num- 
ber of objects, we must first reduce them to a class. Thus, 
if I were asked how many are there in this room, how 
would it be possible to reply ? I ask how many what 'I — 
how many persons, or books, or chairs, or tables, or things ? 
Until I know the class to which the objects to be enumer- 
ated belong, I can never reply to the question. 

I have thus explained the manner in which we form 
general abstract conceptions, or conceptions of classes. Let 
us examine the manner in which we proceed when we form 
our conceptions of genera and species. 

Let us take, for instance, our conception of horse ; it is a 
conception formed by the union of all the constant elements 
which we have found existing in that animal. Suppose I 
proceed, and examine^a zebra, an ass, an elephant. I form 
general conceptions of these, as I did of the horse. I now 
compare these several conceptions together, and find that 
there are certain elements in which they all agree, while 
each one has additional elements peculiar to itself. I com- 
bine in one conception the elements which they all possess in 
common, and gave to it the name pachydermata, which in- 
cludes all these several classes. This general name distin- 
guishes the genus, while the additional elements, by which 
these subordinate classes differ from each other, mark the 
species. Thus it may be said that these several classes of 
animals form species, included in the genus pachydermata. 

As we proceed in our investigations, we observe various 
other classes of animals, a3 carnivora, rodcntia, and a mul- 
titude of others. We compare those genera together, and 



ABSTRACTION. 189 

find tha in certain elements, gradually gro^ ng less numer- 
ous, they all agree. I form a larger class by uniting those 
less numerous elements into a simple conception, and give 
to that conception the name mammalia. Pursuing my 
examination further, I find other classes of iSiimals, as 
numerous as mammalia, differing from them in many im- 
portant respects, yet having one or more elements in com- 
mon : for instance, they all have vertebrae. I then form a 
generic class, by uniting in one conception the few and sim- 
ple elements which they all hold in common. This forms 
my widest and most comprehensive generalization. 

We see, then, that vertebrate comprehends under it an 
immense number of individuals ; that is, every one endowed 
with this form. Under this are several subordinate classes, 
each one possessing this element, and also something addi- 
tional peculiar to itself, as mammalia, fishes, etc. If I now 
take one of these second classes, I find that under it are 
several sub-genera, each one possessing all the elements of 
the genus, and also some other elements by which it differs 
from every other sub-genus. In this manner I descend, un- 
til I come to the lowest species or variety, in which all the 
individuals are, in all constant elements, similar to each 
other. In this manner we form the genera and species of 
science. We of oourse find that, the greater the number of 
elements which enter into the idea of a class, the smaller is 
the number of individuals under it ; and, on the other hand, 
the smaller the number of elements in the idea of a class., 
the greater the number of individuals which it comure- 
bends. 

From what we have here observed, we perceive the 
difference between the process of investigation and of in- 
struction. In investigate, we proceed from particulars to 
generals; we discover particular fact3 and reduce them to 
classes, and then, going still further, comprehend those 



190 INTELLECT! LL PHILOSOPHY. 

classes under more general classes, until we have arrived at 
the widest generalizations in our power. But, when we 
wish to instruct, or communicate knowledge to others, thia 
process is reversed. We then begin with the simplest and 
most universal principles, comprehending the greatest num- 
ber of individuals under them. From these we proceed to 
the largest subordinate genera, from these to sub-genera or 
species, until we have mastered the whole class of objects 
which our most generic classification comprehends. At 
each step, as we proceed downwards from the more to the 
1 ss general, we add some new elements, until we at last 
arrive at the conception of the individuals, with which, in 
the labor of investigation, we commenced. 

And hence we learn the nature of a definition in science. 

When we define any scientific conception, we first men- 
tion the genus to which it belongs, and then the specific 
difference, or those other elements, which, being added to 
the conception of the genus, designate its peculiar species. 
Thus, in geometry, we define a figure as " any combination 
of lines which encloses space." Here "combination of lines " 
is the generic idea, and "enclosing space" is the specific 
difference, or the element added to the generic idea which 
makes out our conception of a figure. Again; "a plane 
triangle is a figure bounded by three straight lines." 
Here, again, "figure" denotes the genus, and "bounded 
by three straight lines " is the specific difference, or the 
element added to the conception of figure which gives us 
the conception of the species, triangle. So, again, " a 
right-angled triangle is a triangle one of whose angles is a 
right angle." Here, again, "triangle" is the genus, and 
'one of whose angles is a rig\t angle" is the specific dif- 
ference, or the element added to the idea of triangle which 
creates the conception of a right-angled triangle. 

Hence, we see that simple objects, or those which have 



ABSTRACTION, 191 

no parts, or into the conception of which no plurality of ele- 
ments enters, can never be defined. They can furnish no 
specific difference, nor can they, by analysis of elements, 
be classed within any genus. In such cases, we are obliged 
merely to describe the circumstances under which the object 
is presented to our cognition, or else place the subject him- 
self under these circumstances. Thus, if we wish to mako 
known to any man a simple energy of the mind, we mention 
the circumstances under which it arises ; he refers to his 
own experience, and instantly recognizes our meaning. If 
he has had no such experience, he can never arrive at tha 
knowledge. Thus, I cannot define seeing to a blind man, 
for it is a simple act. I describe to him the circumstances 
under which it occurs to me, but under the same circum- 
stances he receives no impression. There is, therefore, an 
impassable gulf between us, so far as this cognition is con- 
cerned. The case is similar in all our simple cognitions. 

The question has arisen, and formerly it was argued with 
great bitterness, what is the object of our thought when we 
form a general conception ? Thus, I think of animal, quad- 
ruped, mammal, man, tree, etc. There is nothing in nature 
answering to this conception, for every individual possesses 
all the elements which enter into my conception, and also 
many more. What, then, is the object of thought, when 
we think any of these ideas 7 Some philosophers asserted 
that there was an actual object corresponding to this concep- 
tion ; and others, that, when we formed a general concep- 
tion, the only object was the word which designated it. The 
one class was called realists, the other nominalists. It is 
needless to enter into this discussion at present. It is evi- 
dent that conception is a mode of thought, and that there ia 
in this act nothing numerically distinct from the mental 
act itself. It is true, as Sir W. Hamilton has observed, 
ihat we may in thought make a distinction between the fac- 



192 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 

ulty or state of the mind in conception, and the concept or m« 
tion in which this act exhibits itself. But there is no exist- 
ing thing numerically different from the act, and, therefore, 
it seems evident that both nominalists and realists were 
equally wide of the truth. 

From these illustrations, I hope that the manner in which 
Jie form classes and general conceptions will be sufficiently 
understood. It is, however, evident that this process may 
be employed in a great variety of ways. Abstraction ena- 
bles us to classify, but we may classify for different pur- 
poses, and thus, under different circumstances, select differ- 
ent elements as the basis of our classification. 

It may be useful to mention some of the more common 
and obvious principles by which our classifications are deter- 
mined. 

1. We very frequently form classes from our observation 
of the external appearanoe, the form, color, magnitude, etc., 
or from an examination of the internal structure. Thus, aa 
I have before remarked, men classify the objects which they 
behold, as animals, birds, etc., according to their external 
appearance ; the physiologist classifies them by an examina- 
tion of their internal structure, and the manner in which 
they perform the various functions necessary to life. Such 
are, in general, the classifications in the various departments 
of natural history. 

Here it is proper to remark that, having once formed our 
classification, we naturally refer a new specimen to some one 
of the classes which we have found already existing. It seems, 
however, strange, that, while knowledge is ever advancing, 
men are disposed to believe, at every successive step, that 
they have arrived at its ultimate limits. Yet such is mani- 
festly the infirmity of man. Hence it is that our classifi- 
cations are frequently incorrect. Supposing, incautiously, 
tliat the classes which we have recognized include all the 



ABSTRACTION. 193 

specimens or all the facts that can exist, we are liable to 
refer a new specimen or a new fact to a class to which it 
does not belong. Thus the islanders of the Pacific, who 
had never seen any other quadrupeds than hogs and goats, 
upon seeing a cow, declared that it must be either a large 
goat or a horned hog. These being the only classes they 
had ever observed, they naturally supposed that this new 
specimen must be referred to either the one or the other. 
This was the error of savages, but the same error is liable 
to occur among philosophers. What is called accounting for 
a phenomenon is nothing more than referring it to some 
law, or general classification, under which it is compre- 
hended. Thus, if I am asked why a stone falls to the 
earth, I account for it by replying that all matter is recipro- 
cally attractive ; that is, I refer this individual fact to a 
general law, or the expression of a more general fact. 
From the disposition to refer a new phenomenon to some 
established law, philosophers as well as savages are exposed 
to error. In the case of philosophers, however, the error is 
liable to be carried a step further. When they cannot 
account for a phenomenon, — that is, when they know of no 
class to which to refer it, — they not unfrequently deny its 
existence ; taking it for granted that if they cannot account 
for a phenomenon, it could not have occurred. It is for 
this cause that every new discovery is obliged to fight its 
way to a place in science, against the whole influence of phi- 
losophic incredulity. So far as this leads to a more thorough 
investigation of whatever claims to be a discovery, it is well 
and reasonable ; but so far as it rejects whatever cannot be 
accounted -for as unworthy of examination and deserving 
only of ridicule, it is neither well nor reasonable, and is 
directly opposed to all true progress in science. Philoso- 
phers would frequently be wise would they bear in mind the 
instruction of the poet : 
17 



194 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 

** There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, 
Than are dreamed of in your philosophy." 

2. Individuals may be classified by similarity of cause 
Here we neglect entirely all consideration of external ap« 
pearance or of internal structure, and, forming the concep- 
tion of a particular cause, combine into one class every indi- 
vidual to which that cause gives origin. Thus, the geologist 
may arrange rocks into two classes, the one of which has 
resulted from the action of fire, and the other from the 
action of water. The physician may arrange diseases 
according to the causes which have produced them, one class 
resulting from the affection of the nerves, another from the 
affections of the lungs, the stomach, etc. 

3. We may classify individuals from similarity of effects. 
Here, omitting all consideration of appearance, structure, 
and origin, we form a conception of a particular effect. 
Having formed this conception, we comprehend under it 
every individual which will produce the effects in question. 
The physician arranges all the substances in the materia 
medica on this principle. It matters not to him whether 
the articles which he is examining belong to the animal, 
vegetable or mineral kingdom. We classify them as nar- 
cotics, stimulants, sudorifics, emetics, etc., according, solely, 
to the effects which they are known to produce upon the 
human organism. Thus, the critic classes objects in nature 
or art according to the effect which they are known to pro- 
duce upon the human mind. He calls a landscape, a meta- 
phor, a picture, beautiful, graceful or sublime, as he observes 
it to produce tlese particular emotions on the mind of man. 

It will appear, from these few illustrations, that the vari- 
eties of classification are as numerous as the principles on 
which classifications may be formed. Every art has its 
own principles, on which it classifies the substances ou 
which its labor is exerted The same individual may thus 



ABSTRACTION. 19ft 

be comprehended under as many different classes as there 
are different conceptions formed in the minds of those who 
contemplate it. The physician, the botanist, and the poet, 
may all examine the same plant, and each will assign it to 
a different class, according to the controlling ideas by which 
his classification is governed. 

It is obvious that a faculty, which enters so essentially 
into all the modes of thought, must greatly influence our 
intellectual character. This will be rendered the more evi- 
dent if we consider the separate acts which form the process 
of abstraction, and observe the manner in which the pre- 
dominance of either affects the elements of our intellectual 
constitution. 

1. Analysis. This power to detect and distinguish from 
each other all the various qualities of an external object, 
and all the various changes of a material or a spiritual phe- 
nomenon, is frequently denominated acuteness of observa- 
tion. It is essentially what we have spoken of under ihu 
name of analysis. Its importance to a thinker or discoverer 
is manifest. As every variety of external appearance indi- 
cates a modification of internal quality, and as every varia- 
tion in the process of a change indicates some alteration 
in the condition of the cause, it is obvious that this power 
must be of prime importance to a philosopher. He who 
is best able to analyze the constituent elements of the ob- 
jects to which his attention is directed, whether in the world 
within or the world without, is the most richly provided 
with the materials for accurate judgment. It is thus that 
an accurate observer frequently detects facts which result in 
important discoveries, that ha e always been within the 
reach of his contemporaries, but which had never before 
attracted their attention. From the want of this power, the 
effects of one cause are sometimes ascribed to another ; im- 
portant causes are undetected ; cause and effect, antecedent 



196 tNTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 

and consequent, are blended together ; and, it genera^ 
research becomes vague, unsatisfactory, and unworthy of 
reliance. He, then, who desires to attain to accuracy of 
philosophical inquiry, should strive to cultivate this power 
to the greatest perfection. Nor is this all. By this instru- 
ment we are able to detect sophistry, and lay bare the 
insufficient foundations of all false reasoning. It was from 
Want of acuteness of observation that Locke fell into many 
of his most important errors. The value of this endow- 
ment is also conspicuously seen in the review of his Philos- 
ophy? by Cousin, an author of surpassing mental acuteness* 
This power has always been largely developed in those fa- 
vored individuals who have made the most important addi- 
tions to our knowledge of the laws of nature. 

2. Of different, but not inferior, importance to a culti- 
vated mind, is the power of generalization. Acuteness of 
observation will discover new facts, and observe changes 
heretofore unknown ; it will analyze what is concrete, and 
unravel what is complicated ; but it will do no more. If 
we possess only this power, we may do important service to 
science by collecting valuable materials ; but we shall col- 
lect them only that they may be wrought into philosophical 
laws by the genius of others. Besides this, therefore, an 
inquirer after truth needs a power which, having discovered 
an important relation, shall enable him to detect it under 
whatsoever changes of condition it may be hidden. He will 
thus be able to arrange under each class those individuals 
which the Creator himself has arranged under it, and trace 
out a given cause through all the diversities of time and 
place to which its influence may have extended. Probably 
no power of the human mind has been so fertile in discov- 
ery as this. From a single observation of an hitherto un- 
noticed phenomenon, or from the minute and almost micro- 
ocopic experiments of the laboratory, the philosopher ia 



ABSTRACTION. 197 

able frequently to enunciate a law which controls the most 
important changes of the universe. It was thus that Sit 
Isaac Newton, having accurately determined the law which 
governed the fall of an app)e, at once began to generalize 
this idea. If this law governs bodies at small distances 
from the earth, w T hy should it not govern bodies at great 
distances ? If it governs bodies at great distances from the 
*arth, why may it not reach to the moon, and govern her mo- 
tion in her orbit ? and if the moon in relation to the earth, 
why not the earth and planets in relation to the sun ? Thus, 
by following out this elementary law, the germ was evolved 
of the greatest discovery recorded in the annals of science. 
In a similar manner, Dr. Franklin made himself acquainted, 
by experiment, with the laws of the electric fluid. He observed 
the phenomena of lightning in the thunder-cloud. Compar- 
ing them together, and making due allowance for the differ- 
ence between the vastness of nature and the littleness of 
man, he detected the same elementary phenomena in both, 
and the question at once occurred to him, Are they not 
identical ? A simple experiment decided the question in 
the affirmative, and added a wide domain to the empire of 
human knowledge. It was also a rare combination of these two 
powers of observation and generalization that gave to Cu- 
vier the first place among the naturalists of his own, and, 
perhaps, of every age. 

3. Intellectual character is also affected by the degree in 
which we are endowed with the power of combination. 

I have already remarked that the power of combination 
may be either poetic or scientific; that is, that we may 
form our combinations at will, or they may be limited by 
the objects in nature from which they are derived. This 
difference of endowment distinguishes the class of Milton 
and Shakspeare from that of Newton and Franklin. 

But, passing this general distinction, it is evident that 
J7* 



108 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 

the powur oi scientific combination is possessed by m:n in 
very unequal degrees. Suppose a philosopher to have ob 
served with accuracy a series of phenomena. He has them 
before him, — the facts and the order of their succession. 
He knows that under the same conditions the same succes- 
sion will be repeated. But this is not enough. What are 
the unseen changes of which these phenomena are the man- 
ifestations ; and what are the relations which they sustain 
to each other ? In a word, what is the rationale of these 
several changes ? As, for instance, he places a piece of wood 
on the fire ; it inflames and burns to ashes. The facts are 
visible and common, and he knows that another piece of 
wood, under the same conditions, will be subject to the same 
chancres. But what is the rationale of these changes ? 
What is combustion? What is flame? What is ashes? 
What are the combinations formed and dissolved during the 
change of wood to a substance so utterly unlike itself? 
Here, then, is a demand for philosophical combination. 
The next step is to form a conception of such unseen causes 
as will be sufficient to account for the phenomena. 

The power of forming such conceptions exists in very, 
different degrees. Some men merely observe the facts, and 
give themselves no trouble to ascertain the cause. Others, 
in seeking for a cause, form conceptions after the manner of 
the poets, which have no relation to established laws, and 
can never be verified by observation or experiment. He 
who is endowed with true philosophical genius seem3 
instinctively to originate combinations analogous to truth, 
which become the immediate precursors to discovery. I do 
not say that there is anything of the nature of pro >f in a 
conception of this kind, only that it serves to direct the 
inquiries of the original investigator. Having formed liia 
conception, his next business is to prove it to be true. 
When he has done this, his discovery is made. Without 



ABSTRACTION. 199 

proof, nothing has yet been determined ; but without some 
conception to direct investigation, there could be no proof 
for there would be nothing to prove. Sir Isaac Newton and 
Sir Humphrey Davy seem to me to have been richly en- 
dowed with the power of scientific combination. On tha 
other hand, Dr. Priestley, though an eminent philosopher, 
seems to have possessed it in a very imperfect degree. 
Though his discoveries were numerous, and of the highest 
importance, yet all his theories of the changes which he 
observed have long since been exploded. 

The power of philosophical combination, of necessity, 
improves with the progress of science. As the laws of 
nature and her modes of operation are better understood, we 
form conceptions more and more analogous to truth. We 
learn to think more and more in harmony with the ideas of 
the Creator ; and, from a larger and more accurate acquaint- 
ance with the known, we are the better able to unravel the 
mysteries of the unknown. When it was observed that 
water would rise in a pump, the solution of the phenomenon 
at first said to be given was that nature abhorred a 
vacuum. When it was found that it would not rise more 
than thirty-two feet, this fact was explained by the theory 
that nature did not abhor a vacuum for more than thirty- 
two feet. Can it be that any of the hypotheses of the present 
day will seem as strange to our successors as this theory 
does to us ] 

With regard to the improvement of this faculty, a few 
words nay be added at the close of this chapter. Let ua 
refer to each of the three acts into which abstraction has 
been divided. 

Analysis, or the power of distinguishing and separating 
from each other tilings which differ, may be employed 
either objectively or subjectively, as we arc inquiring into 



200 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 

the qualities and relations of the world without us, or th* 
energies and relations of the world within us. 

So far as the accurate observation of the external world 
is concerned, much depends upon the delicacy of our senses, 
but probably no less upon the earnest attention with which 
we use them. A listless, careless observer never discovers 
anything. It is only by an intense direction of the mind to 
the objects of our inquiry, that we are able to detect changes 
and relations which have been hidden from preceding 
observers. Truth reveals herself not to those who pay her 
mere formal and perfunctory service, but to those who 
render to her the earnest and heartfelt homage of the whole 
.soul. 

Acuteness in the analysis of mental phenomena requires 
an equal earnestness, though it is differently directed. We 
here find it necessary to cultivate the habit of withdrawing 
from all external objects, and fixing our attention on the 
revelations of our own consciousness. Few men can do this 
without long-continued and patient effort. With sum 
effort, however, most men can attain to it. We must learn 
to look calmly and steadily upon a mental phenomenon. If 
there appear in it the slightest indications of complexity ; 
if, when examining it from different points of view, the least 
shade of difference be cognizable in our consciousness ; or, 
if, on comparing two forms of thought, which seemed to us 
identical, there arises within us the intellectual feeling of 
dissimilarity, we must pause until we are thoroughly satis- 
fied on the subjects of our inquiry. It is by listening to 
the first suggestion of a difference, that we learn to deter- 
mine the character and relations of our mental phenomena. 

If we would enlarge our power of generalization, I know 
of no better method than to study the generalizations of 
nature. Admirable lessons of this sort are found in the 
natural sciences, — chemistry, physiology, geology, etc. ISla 



ABSTRACTION. 201 

finer exercise for the power of generalization can I* desired, 
than to take a single important chemical law, and trace out 
its operations on the vast and the minute throughout the 
kingdom of nature. Having become familiar with theso 
wide-spreading classifications, we shall be the better able to 
pursue the generalizations of the subjective. We may then 
take an intellectual or moral law. and, having clearly marked 
out its nature and limitations, follow out its effects on the 
character of individual and social man. The light which 
will thus dawn on the mind will frequently astonish the 
student himself. Patient thought in this direction will 
furnish explanations of phenomena, and suggest rules of 
conduct, which would hardly reveal themselves to any other 
mode of investigation. 

To improve the power of philosophical combination, we 
need, most of all, to study the actual combinations of nature. 
The more familiar we become with them, the clearer will be 
the light shed upon the unknown. Much may also be 
learned from the lives of those who have been so fortunate 
as to extend the limits of human knowledge. By observing 
the manner in which they have labored, we may hope to be 
able to follow their example. This subject will, however, 
come again under consideration, when, in a subsequent 
chapter, we treat of scientific imagination. 

REFERENCES. 

Abstraction — Locke, Book 2, chap. 11, sections 9, 6, 10, 11 ; chapte. 
12, section 1 ; Stewart, vol. i., chapter 4 ; Reid, Essay 5, chapters 2, 3, 
and 4. 

Why most words general — Locke, Book 3, chap. 3, sections 1 — 10 
Reid, Essay 5, chap. 1. 

Simple words nut definable —Locke, Book 3, chap. 4, sections 4 — 11. 

Nominalism and Realism —Cousin, sect. 5, last part ; eJtswart vol u 
ahap. 2, sections 2 and 3 



CHAPTER V 

MEMORY. 



SECTION I. — ASSOCIATION OF IDEAS, OR A TRAIN Of 
THOUGHT IN THE MIND. 

The next faculty which we shall consider is Memory. 
As, however, its nature cannot be unfolded without a knowl- 
edge of the laws which govern the succession of thought in 
the mind, we shall devote to this subject a preliminary 
section. 

Every person is conscious of the fact that, during his 
waking hours, his mind is continually engaged in thinking. 
Were any one to ascertain that an hour, or even a few 
minutes, had elapsed, in which he had been conscious of no 
thought, he would know that, unless he had fallen asleep, ho 
must have been affected with some disease which had for the 
time paralyzed his intellectual powers. 

And yet more ; we are all conscious that it is impossible, 
without severe and long-continued effort, to fix the mind 
continuously upon any particular thought. It naturally, 
and without effort, passes from one idea to another, and it 
requires a determination of the will to detain it upon any one 
subject. No interval seems to intervene between one 
thought and another. They succeed each other without any 
volition on our part, and frequently take a direction which 
we strive in vain to control. A train of thought will some- 



ASSOCIATION OF IDEAS. 203 

times seize upon the mind, and we are unable to disengage 
it. We strive to turn our attention to other objects, and, 
after repeated and strenuous efforts, succeed but imperfectly. 
And in general it may be remarked, that he has attained 
to uncommon intellectual self-discipline who is able to think 
at will, and for any considerable length of time, upon any 
subject that he chooses. 

But, while all this is true, it is, on the other hand, true 
that our thoughts do not follow each other at random. There 
are what may be called laws )f connection, by which their 
succession is governed. Whenever an unusual idea occurs 
to us, nothing is more common than to inquire for the reason 
of its appearance at that particular time and place. We 
take it for granted that it could not have occurred to us 
without being related to some other idea previously existing 
in the mind. We, therefore, refer back to the thoughts which 
were just before present to our consciousness, and endeavor 
to trace some connection between them and that for whoso 
origin we are inquiring. 

This fact may be abundantly illustrated by our own expe- 
rience. The following examples will recall other instances 
to our recollection. Mr. Hobbes relates, in his Leviathan, 
that, upon some occasion, several gentlemen were engaged 
in a conversation respecting the civil war. One of them 
abruptly inquired the value of a Roman denarius. The 
question sounded oddly, and strangely at variance with the 
subject under discussion. Mr. Hobbes relates that, on a little 
reflection, he was led to trace the train of thought which led 
to the inquiry. The subject of conversation, the civil war, 
naturally led the mind to the history of Charles I. The 
remembrance of the king suggested the treachery of those 
who delivered him up. The treachery in this case intro- 
duced the treachery of Judas Iscariot. The crime of Judas 
Was at once associated with the price for which it was corn* 



204 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 

mitted, and hence the question what was the value of a 
Roman denarius, 

Stewart gives an illustration from the voyage of Captain 
King, the companion of Cook, of the power of a single 
object to awaken a train of reflection. " While we were at 
dinner in this miserable hut, on the banks of the river 
Awatska, the guests of a people with whose existence we 
had before been scarcely acquainted, and at the extremity 
of the habitable globe, a solitary half-worn pewter spoon, 
whose shape was familiar to us, attracted our attention j 
and, on examination, we found it stamped on the back with 
the word London. I cannot pass over this circumstance 
in silence, out of gratitude for the many pleasant thoughts, 
the anxious hopes, and tender remembrances, it excited 
in us. Those who have experienced the effects that long 
absence and extreme distance from their native country pro- 
duce on the mind, will readily conceive the pleasure such 
a trifling incident can give." 

A touching incident, illustrative of the same principle, is 
related by Mrs. Judson in her reminiscences of her late hus- 
band. During Dr. Judson's long captivity, in the death 
prison at Ava, his heroic wife, intending to create an agree- 
able surprise, had taken great pains to prepare an article 
of food that might cheer his spirits by reminding him of 
home. " In this simple, homelike act, this little unpretend- 
ing effusion of a loving heart, there was something so touch- 
ing, so illustrative of what she really was, that he bowed his 
head upon his knees, and the tears flowed down to the chains 
about his ankles. Presently the scene changed, and thcro 
came over him a vision of the past. He saw again the homo 
of his boyhood. His stern, strongly revered father, his 
rentle mother, his rosy, curly-haired sister and pale young 
brother, were gathered for the noonday meal, md he wai 
once more among them. And so his fancy re\elied there 



ASSOCIATION OF IDEAS. 205 

finally, he lifted his head, ami the misery that sur- 
rounded him ! He moved his feet, and the rattling of the 
heavy chains was as a death-knell. He thrust the care- 
fully prepared dinner into the hands of his associate, and, 
as fast as his fetters would permit, hurried to his c\"n little 
shad "--Vol. i., pp. 378-9. 

It is unnecessary to illustrate more fully the general fact 
that our ideas thus follow in succession independently of our 
will. We may remark, still further, that when thought fol- 
lows thought without any connection, we recognize it imme- 
diately as a proof of insanity. To say of another that he 
talks incoherently, is to say that he is not in his right mind. 
"Without any knowledge of the laws of mental association, 
we, in this manner, intuitively distinguish a normal from an 
abnormal state of the intellect. Thus, in the annual report 
of the Massachusetts General Hospital for 1853, one of the 
patients is referred to as continually talking after the fol- 
lowing manner : "I have a commission as a justice of the 
peace, and an asparagus bed. I like lightning best at a dis- 
tance. Whoever puts his name on paper in the Wiscasset 
Bank, has a mark on his forehead, and is worse off than if 
he was dining with one of the selectmen. Look out." 

It is obvious, then, that our thoughts follow each other 
in a train subjected to certain general laws, and that they 
only move at variance with these laws when the mind is in 
an abnormal state. 

The laws by which the train of thought is governed, or, 
as they are called, the laws of association, are of two kinds, 
objective and subjective. The objective laws are those arising 
from the relations which our thoughts sustain to each other ; 
the subjective arise from the relations which our thoughts 
sustain to the thinking subject. Among the objective laws 
are numbered resemblance, contrast, contiguity, and caus« 
an/1 effect ; aim ng the subjective are, interval )f time, fro- 
18 



206 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 

quency of repetition, coexistent emotion, and the menta* 
Condition of the particular individual. 

I. Of the objective laws of association. 

1. Resemblance. Every one knows that when we are 
thinking of any interesting object or event, other objects or 
events in any respects similar to it, naturally present them- 
lelves. If we look, for the first time, upon a river in a 
foreign land, we instantly recall some river in our own coun- 
try which it resembles ; and we are never as well satisfied 
is when we find a marked similarity between them. We 
aever pass over ridges of snow-clad mountains without be- 
ing reminded of the Alps. When we visit a battle-ground, 
we find rising up within us the recollection of other battles 
which may have resembled it in the fierceness of the con- 
test, the number of the slain, the principles which nerved 
the different combatants, or the results which flowed from 
the action over the destinies of humanity. This universal 
tendency is seen in the manner in which »we designate 
remarkable events by giving to them the name of some re- 
markable event of a similar character. Thus any battle in 
which a small number of patriots have resisted a host 
of invaders is called a Thermopylae or a Marathon. A 
distinguished general is called an Alexander or a Julius 
Caesar, a patriot is a Washington. These instances all illus- 
trate the facility with which one event suggests to us an- 
other which resembles it. 

If however, we examine the cases which we associate 
bj resemblance, we shall find them to be of two kinds. 
Sometimes we associate objects by resemblance in their ex- 
ternal qualities. Thus, when we see a vast mountain, we 
think of Mont Blanc, Chimborazo, or the Himalayas. We 
compare a vast river to the Mississippi or the Amazon. So, 
when distinguished men are mentioned, we are continually 
comparing them together, if, in thr'r character or circuia 



ASSOCIATION OF TDEAS. 207 

stances, there bv any elements of similarity. Hence Crom- 
well and Napoleon, Charles I. and Louis XVI., Pitt and 
Fox, Scott and Byron, are so commonly spoken of in con 
nection. In fact, a large portion of our conversation con- 
sists of comparisons of this character. 

Another mode of association belonging to the same class, 
but a source of far greater pleasure, is that in which objects 
and events are connected, not by resemblance in their ex- 
ternal appearances, but by their effects. Here the mind 
is delighted, not simply by the addition of another image in 
itself beautiful, but by the peculiar effect of novelty and 
unexpectedness. Thus Ossian describes the music of his 
minstrel by saying, " The music of Caryl, like the memory 
of joys that are past, was pleasant yet mournful to the soul." 
Here the objects themselves, music and a recollection, are 
entirely unlike ; but, agreeing in the effect which they pro- 
duce, we derive a peculiar pleasure from associating them 
together, and* we are conscious that the pleasure is greater 
from the fact that the resemblance is unexpected. Thus 
Job compares his friends to a brook in the desert, which, in 
summer, when it is most needed, is dried up, and disappoints 
the hope of those who relied upon it for succor. There is 
no similarity here in the objects themselves. A man can- 
not resemble a brook. In one thing, however, they are 
alike : they disappoint hope. Hence the beauty of the figure. 
It is on this circumstance that the success of metaphorical 
language depends. Hence the rule of rhetoricians, that 
those metaphors are most beautiful in which the objects 
themselves are most dissimilar, while in the effects which 
they produce, or the point in which they are compared, they 
are the most alike. Hence the beauty of the passage in 
Longinus, in which he compares the Iliad of Homer to the 
meridian sun, and the Odyssey to the sun at his setting, 
when the magnitude is increased, but tho effulgence is di- 
minished 



208 INTELLECTUAL 1HILOSOPHY. 

2. Contrast. We find ourselves frequently associating 
Ideas on the principle of contrast ; that i3 to say, one idea 
at one time suggests to us another which resembles it ; at 
another, an idea exactly opposite to it. Thus, happiness 
frequently recalls to our mind the idea of misery, as in the 
verse of Young : " How sad a sight is human happiness ! " 
Height and depth, power and weakness, greatness and little- 
ness, poverty and riches, the palace and the hovel, the cra- 
dle and the grave, are mutually suggested by each other. 
Hence in rhetoric the frequent use of antithesis. 

As I remarked respecting resemblance, that it may be 
either in external appearance or in effect, the same is true 
of contrast. We here derive pleasure from contemplating 
similarity of external appearance, while the effects are 
exceedingly unlike. Thus, in the beautiful passage from 
Milton's Comus : 

" I have often heard 
My mother Circe, with the sirens three, 
Amidst the flowery kirtlecl naiades, 
Culling their potent herbs and baleful drugs, 
Who, as they sung, would take the prisoned soul 
And lap it in Elysium. Scylla wept 
And chid her barking waves into attention, 
And fell Charybdis murmured soft applause. 
Yet they in pleasing slumber lulled the sense, 
And, in sweet madness, robbed it of itself ; 
But such a sacred and homefelt delight, 
Such sober certainty of waking bliss, 
I never heard till now ' ' 

Comus, 254—262. 

3. Contiguity. This may be either of time or place. 

1. Of time. When we reflect upon any event, we natur- 
ally find our attention called to other events which occurred 
at the same period. When we think of a distinguished man, 
we always recall his cotemporaries. Whoever tbinLs of 
Johnson without finding him surrounded, in our conception 



ASSOCIATION OF IDEAS. 209 

by Boswell, Goldsmith, Garrick, Burke, and Sir Joshua 
Reynolds 7 When we think of Napoleon, we surround him 
with his marshals, and the sovereigns whose destinies he so 
greatly changed. An event of historical importance sug- 
gests the events contiguous to it in time. The advent of 
our Saviour could hardly be thought of without leading us 
to reflect upon the condition of Rome, and of the then civ- 
ilized world. Hence we learn the appropriateness of the 
rule, in the study of history, to fix definitely in cur minds 
the culminating events in each particular era, and then the 
contemporaneous occurrences will easily group themselves in 
their proper places. 

2. Contiguity in place. When any important place is 
visited or thought of, it at once suggests to us the other places 
in its vicinity. Who can think of Jerusalem, and not think 
of the hills of Calvary, the mount of Olives, the garden of 
Getbsemane ? Who can think of Waterloo without thinking 
of Brussels, and Quatre Bras, and the localities in the neigh- 
borhood, on the possession of which the issue of the contest 
so frequently turned ? It is on this account that we survey 
with such impassioned interest any spot from which, at an 
earlier age, have emanated influences which have been deeply 
felt in the history of our race. The sentiments of Johnson 
at Iona find a response in the bosom of every cultivated 
mind. "We were now treading that illustrious island 
which was once the luminary of the Caledonian regions, 
whenev savage clans and roving barbarians derived the ben- 
efits of knowledge and the blessings of religion. To abstract 
the mind from all local emotions would be impossible if it 
were endeavored, and would be foolish if it were possible. 
Whatever withdraws us from the power of the senses, what- 
ever makes the past, the distant, or the future, predominate 
over the present, advances us in the dignity of thinking 
beings. Far from me and from my friends be .mch frigid 
18* 



210 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 

philosophy as may conduct us indifferent and unmoved ovef 
any ground which has been dignified by wisdom, bravery, 
or virtue. That man is little to be envied whose patriotism 
would not gain force upon the plain of Marathon, or whose 
piety would not grow warmer among the ruins of lona." — - 
Journey to the Western Islands. 

Hence we perceive the reason why names of places, per- 
sons, etc., frequently add so much vivacity to style. In- 
stead of an abstract and it may be disconnected idea, ihey 
present us with a visible image, surrounded by a multitude 
of associate ideas. Thus, when we wish to render impress- 
ive the idea of successful resistance to oppression, we refer 
to particular localities, as Runnymede, Naseby, Lexington, 
Bunker Hill, or Yorktown. And hence we learn that the 
study of history should always be connected with that of 
geography ; that is, we should study history with the map 
before us. We thus associate events with localities, and 
remember them more perfectly, as well as comprehend them 
more accurately. 

4. Cause and effect. I have already, when treating of 
original suggestion, referred to the fact that the observation 
of a change always leads us to ask for the cause. In the 
same manner, when we observe the manifestation of power, 
we instinctively ask for the results which have followed it. 
We associate in obedience to this universal tendency. If we 
think upon the reformation by Luther, we naturally think 
of the causes which led to it, and strive to trace out its con- 
sequences. If we think of the landing of the Pilgrims, we 
ask ourselves what causes could have led them to forsake the 
comforts of a civilized home, and plant themselves, in mid- 
winter, upon a continent inhabited only by savages ; and, 
before we have answered this inquiry, we find ourselves 
turning to the changes which this event has wrought upon 
the destinies of the world. So, when, for the first time, 1 



ASSOCIATION OF IDEAS. 211 

observe a philosophical experiment, I am wholly unsatisfied 
until I understand the rationale of the changes which it pre- 
sents. I see. for instance, a taper lighted, when placed in 
the focus of one concave mirror, if a heated cannon-ball is 
placod in the other, though the taper is carefully protected 
from the direct rays of the ball. It is a disagreeable puzzlo 
until the doctrine of the radiation of caloric is explained to 
me. As soon as this is done, my mind is at ease, and I 
proceed at once to explain other phenomena by the applica- 
tion of the same principle. Now, it is obvious that, this 
connection having been thus established, either one of these 
ideas will almost infallibly suggest the other. The law of 
caloric radiation will suggest the effect which has been men- 
tioned, and the effect will suggest to us the law. So, hav- 
ing examined the causes which led to the first settlement of 
this country, and the consequences which have flowed from 
it, either one will bring to our mind the other, almost as a 
matter of necessity. It will readily occur that, as this is a 
permanent relation, like causes always producing like effects, 
this mode of association must be one of the most important 
m.*ns of enlanrino; and retaining our knowledge. 

It will be easily perceived that these various forms of 
objective association intermix with and modify each other. 
Thus, the relation of cause and effect would naturally asso- 
ciate two events together; the association by resemblance 
would recall similar causes, and that by contrast, causes and 
effects of a dissimilar character ; while events connected by 
the relation of contiguity of time and place would be mere 
likely to occur to us than events remote and long since 
passed away. Thus, were I thinking of the landing of the 
Pilgrims. I would naturally think of the causes which led 
to this event: resemblance would lead me to think of simi- 
lar cases of colonization, and contrast would hring to my 
recollection other instances in which men had left their ua- 



212 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY 

tive country, for love of adventure or thirst for gold. As I 
traced the results, I would naturally compare those which 
resembled the enterprise of the Pilgrims with those origin- 
ating in a dissimilar cause ; and, as the most contiguous in 
'ime and place, I wou'd naturally turn to the states of 
South America, and contrast the causes and effects of these 
two modes of colonization together. In this manner, by the 
blending of these various forms of association, a vast range 
of thought is opened before us ; while, at the same time, it 
is always under the control of established and recognized 



II. Of the subjective laws of association. 

The laws commonly comprehended under this class are, 
as I have remarked, interval of time, frequency of repetition, 
coexistent emotion, and the mental state of the particular 
individual. 

1. Interval of time. 

Every one knows that if two ideas are associated together 
from any cause whatever, the one readily recalls the other, 
if only a short interval of time have elapsed. But, if both 
of the ideas have been for a long time absent from our 
recollection, the association becomes indistinct, and the sug- 
gestion occurs less readily. To the truth of this remark 
every one's experience bears testimony. The events of a 
journey, by the relations of contiguity of time and place, 
readily suggest each other in regular succession, immedi- 
ately after our return. But, if we enter upon our usual 
avocations, and have no occasion, either by writing or con- 
versation, to recaF. the scenes which we witnessed, all but 
the most prominent events fade from our recollection. We 
forget most of the localities, and those which we remem- 
ber cease to suggest the events connected with them. All 
becomes blended together in one confused remembrance ; we 
rbrget both when and where we saw pirticular persons a* 



ASSOCIATION OF IDEAS. 213 

things, and nothing remains to us but a recollecti jn of the 
most important events, and a general impression made by 
the facts, which are themselves fast sinking into oblivion. 
The same truth is illustrated by the reading of a book, and 
in a thousand other instances. 

2. Repetition. 

It is obvious that an association which Las been frequently 
recalled presents itself to us much more readily than anoth 
er which has only once or twice, and at long intervals, passed 
through the mind. By every successive act of repetition, 
the connecting link between the two ideas is strengthened, 
until, at length, the association between the two becomes 
indissoluble. Hence it is that the beliefs of childhood are 
with so great difficulty eradicated, and that, even after the 
belief has passed away, the association still remains. Thus, 
many persons whc in youth have been taught the belief in 
goblins, and night after night have listened to the recital of 
ghost stories and spectral appearances, although now per- 
fectly convinced of the groundlessness of their former belief, 
never pass by a grave-yard, in darkness, without a tremor. 
They have so firmly associated a grave-yard with ghosts, 
that, in spite of the most deliberate conviction, the one idea 
recalls the other with its former unpleasant emotions. 

The value of this power of rendering associations perma- 
nent by repetition is seen in the acquisition of practical skill 
He who has been in the habit of performing the most com- 
plicated operations never finds himself at a loss ; each stop 
in the process instantly suggesting that which is immediately 
to succeed it, and each successive emergency calling to mind 
the means by which it has been previously encountered. 
Hence, we see the difference between theory and practice, 
and the peculiar advantages of each. lie who is only ac- 
quainted with the theory is obliged tc pursue a course of 
reasoning in order to arrive at a result; while, to a practical 



214 INTELLfcJTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 

man, tLj result is suggested by the principle of reiterated 
association. A man may have studied thoroughly the theory 
of navigation, and may understand the laws by which a vessel 
is governed in moving through the water, both in fair weather 
and foul. But let him be called on to reduce his knowledge 
to practice in any trying emergency, and he will be obliged 
to compare and reason, and form a judgment from various 
conflicting elements, so that he will probably not arrive at a 
result until the time of action is past. He, however, who has 
been long in the practice of navigation, who has witnessed 
storms in all their variety, and has frequently been called 
upon to employ the means necessary to escape their violence, 
finds that at the critical moment the course proper to be 
pursued suggests itself spontaneously. He will, therefore, 
have taken all the measures necessary for safety, before the 
theoretical navigator has determined what they are. The 
extent to which practical skill may be carried, without any 
knowledge of principles, is often remarkable. A very intel- 
ligent captain of a steamer once told me that he had, for 
several years, employed an engineer, in w r hom he reposed 
entire confidence, and whom he had found, on every occa- 
sion, perfectly competent to the discharge of his duties. It 
happened that on one occasion the engineer made some 
remark which led him to ask the question, what makes an 
engine go. The man replied, at once, that he never knew, 
and he never could understand it, although he knew the 
several parts perfectly, and could, by the sound of the ma- 
chinery, tell in an instant the nature and place of any irreg- 
ularity, and the manner in which it should be rectified. 

By tnese remarks, however, I do not wish it to be under- 
stood that I consider practical skill preferable to theoretical 
knowledge. Were events always to follow each other in 
the same succession, and always to require the same mode ol 
treatment, practice would seem nearly all that was neces- 



ASSOCIATION OF IDEAS. 216 

gary Li education. But the reverse is the fact. Cases are 
continually occurring which can only be provided for by a 
knowledge of general laws ; and here, if we have no guide 
but practical skill, we must be inevitably disconcerted. 
When a new emergency arises, nothing but general lawa 
will enable us either to understand or to provide fcr it. 
The perfection of education requires that both of these ele- 
ments be combined, — that is, that -we learn the laws by 
which changes are governed, and acquire so thorough a 
knowledge of the modes of their application, and, by repeated 
practice, associate so strongly the steps of the process we 
perform, that, -while we act with the promptitude of the 
practised artisan, we may comprehend the reasons of our 
action, and be able, on the instant, to form a correct judg- 
ment under the pressure of an untried emergency. Thus 
the affairs of' a government, under ordinary circumstances, 
may be sufficiently w T ell conducted by a mere official, guided 
Bolely by precedent, provided he be familiar with the rou- 
tine of daily administration. But when new combinations 
arise, and events transpire, for which official rules furnish 
no direction, there is demanded, besides a knowledge of the 
forms of proceeding, a comprehensive acquaintance with 
general principles, which shall unfold the true relations of 
things, under what conditions soever they may present them- 
selves. Thus says Air. Burke, in his speech en American 
taxation : "It may truly be said that men too much con- 
versant with office are rarely minds of remarkable enlarge- 
ment. Their habits of office are apt to give them a turn to 
think the substance of business not to be more important 
than the forms in which it is conducted. These forms are 
adapted to ordinary occasions, and therefore persons who 
are nurtured in office do admirably well so long as things 
go on in their common order; but when the high roads are 
broken up, and the waters are out,— when a new and 



216 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 

troubled scene is opened, and the file affords no precedent^ 
— then it is that a greater knowledge of mankind, and a far 
more extensive comprehension of things, is requisite than 
ever office gave, or than ever office can give." 

It Ins frequently been observed that military commanders 
have generally succeeded remarkably well in the adminis- 
trati;>n of civil affairs. As examples of this, the founders 
of dynasties may be referred to ; or, if particular instances 
need be given, we may mention the names of Frederick the 
Great, Washington, Napoleon, Wellington, General Jack- 
eon, and a multitude of others. The reason of this may be 
found in the remark made above, that the perfection of edu- 
cation consists in the combination of theoretical knowledge 
with practical skill. The duties of a military commander 
give him this education. Pie is obliged to form for himself 
the plans which must be carried out upon his own responsi- 
bility. Hence, he must study them thoroughly for himself, 
understand their bearings, and take no step which he has 
not decided upon after the most mature reflection. He 
must then execute his decisions himself, and thus the rela- 
tion of theory and practice, of the conception and the execu- 
tion of it, must be constantly present to his reflection. The 
advantage which this habit of mind must confer, over that 
of theorists who never practise and practical men who never 
reason, must be apparent. India has been called the cradle 
of great men, and for this same reason. In the immense 
empire of Great Britain in the East, the government of so 
many provinces must create a vast number of situations in 
which almost the sole authority must reside in the chief 
administrative officer of the district. He must learn to 
decide for himself, and decide wisely, and also provide the 
means for carrying his decisions into effect. In such a 
school as this, talent is rapidly developed, and thus not 
unfrcquently a man of thirty-five attains the clearness of 



ASSOCIATION OF IDEAS. 217 

mind, fertility of resources, and promptness of action, of a 
man. under 01 dinar y circumstances, of fifty. 

i. Coexistent emotion is tne third law of subjective 
association. 

By the law of coexistent emotion, it is meant that when- 
ever an cent awakens in us strong emotion, it becomes 
deeply fixed in the memory, and is more readily associated 
with any other event to which it is related. 

Of the existence of such a law in our mental constitution 
our own experience will furnish us with innumerable exam- 
ples. The events of several days will frequently pass away, 
without leaving more than a dim and shadowy trace of their 
occurrence. But if on any particular day a fact has been 
communicated to us by which we were strongly excited, as 
the death of a friend, the unexpected arrival of a relative, 
or an event of great importance to our country, that day 
will long stand out vividly before us. The place where and 
the time when we first received the intelligence are indis- 
solubly associated with the event itself, and the fact, with 
all its attendant circumstances, is engraven on the mind for- 
ever. So, in travelling over a country for the first time, its 
ordinary features, awakening no emotion, are soon forgotten ; 
but if we chance to pass by a celebrated river, an overhang- 
ing precipice, a magnificent waterfall, or any other object 
that awakens the emotion of novelty, beauty, or sublimity, 
we find it indelibly fixed in our recollection, with all its at- 
tendant circumstances ; and it is ever afterwards ready to be 
associated with similar scenes which we witness ourselves, or 
which are described to us by others. The power of emotion 
is here two-fold ; — in the first place, it rivets the event on 
the memory, and, in the second, it recalls it whenever, on a 
subsequent occasion, the same emotion is awakened. 

It is on this principle that felicity of style, splendor of 
imagery and power of description, become important aids in 
19 



218 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 

all our efforts to convince men by argumei t. When we 
desire to change the opinions of men, it is necessary that our 
reasonings be retained in tbeir recollectijn, and frequently 
dwelt upon in reflection. When an argument is associated 
with emotion it is more easily retained; and when the erao ■ 
tion is pleasant it is more readily recalled, and moro 
earnestly considered. Under these circumstances it will 
produce a more distinct impression on the judgment, and 
the judgment itself is associated with agreeable emotions. 
Every one will remember, after hearing a discourse, that 
different passages present themselves to his recollection with 
different degrees of distinctness ; and he always finds that 
those which affected him most strongly during delivery are 
those which fix themselves, afterwards, most firmly on his 
momory. Of the thousands who have read Burke's speech 
on the nabob of Arcot's debts, probably very few have any 
distinct conception of the argument, while all remember his 
magnificent description of the descent of Hyder Ali upon 
the Carnatic, commencing, "When, at length Hyder Ali 
found," etc. The facts and the reasonings may have long 
wnce passed away, but we remember the scene of devasta- 
tion which the orator describes, and, whether justly or 
unjustly, hold in abhorrence the men whom he stigmatizes 
^6 the authors of the calamity. 

4. Peculiarities of mental character. Some of these 
are permanent, and some accidental. 

Men differ very greatly in mental constitution. " In some 
the reasoning element predominates, in others the imagin- 
ative, and in others the practical. These intellectual biases 
must modify very materially the train of thought. Let, 
for instance, a poet and a philosopher, on a clear night, 
go out to survey the vault of heaven, studded with in- 
numerable stars. The trams of thought which will arise in 
the minds of the two men will be exceedingly unlike, 



ASSOCIATION OF IDEAS. 219 

The one would associate all that he saw with various ideas 
«)f moral sublimity with which he is familiar, and would per- 
haps express his emotions in a hymn of praise, or an ode to a 
planet. The astronomer would think of the distances, mag- 
nitudes and revolutions, of the heavenly bodies, and would 
find himself striving to solve some problem which their pres- 
ent position suggested. A devout man, on the other hand, 
would probably give utterance to his emotions in the words 
of David : " When I consider the heavens the work of thy 
fingers, the moon and the stars which thou hast ordained, 
what is man, that thou art mindful of him, or the son of 
man, that thou visitest him?" To a mind like that of 
Newton the fall of an apple might give rise to a train of 
thought which would lead to the most magnificent dis- 
coveries ; to a boy it might suggest no other idea than the 
desire of eating it ; while to the botanist it would recall the 
class and order of plants to which the tree belonged. Agas- 
siz and Coleridge would be very differently affected by a view 
from the vale of Chamouni. On the other hand, in an un- 
cultivated mind, none of these trains of thought would bo 
awakened. Thus, the poet, describing a mind of this order> 
tells us, 

"A cowslip, by the river's brim, 
A yellow cowslip was to him ; 
And it was nothing more." 

Besides these intellectual differences, there are permanent 
varieties of character depending on the tone of mind of the 
individual. Some men are always cheerful, the present and 
the future being always tinged with the roseate hue of hope. 
Every change seems to them indicative of prosperity. Such 
is, more commonly, the character of youth. To others the 
present, but more especially the future, seems clothed with 
gloom ; and the prospect of change awakens no other emo- 
tion than apprchensiveness. Such is the character of the 



220 INTELLECTUAL PHIL )fe.JPHY. 

melancholy man, and such is apt to be the tendency of age. 
Milton, in his L' Allegro and II Penseroso, has, with strik 
ing beauty, illustrated these two forms of character. 

These are permanent varieties ; but there are accidental 
varieties, depending on the circumstances of the individual 
The mind, deeply affected by any train of reflection, will 
pursue it for some time, though at variance with its 
natural bias. Thus, an astronomer, fresh from the reading 
of Milton, might look upon the heavens for a time with the 
emotions of a poet ; and a poet, rising from the study of 
the Principia, might look upon them with the eye of an as- 
tronomer. And then, again, our tone of mind frequently 
varies from its accustomed bias. A cheerful man is some- 
times sad, and a melancholy man is sometimes mirthful. 
Images exquisitely ludicrous occasionally flitted across the 
gloom which habitually shrouded the mind of Cowper. We 
all know how different are the trains of thought which press 
upon him who walks abroad for the first time after the 
death of a friend, and him who, after confinement by sick- 
ness, rejoices in the freshness of invigorated health. 

These subjective laws again modify each other. Thus, 
for instance, lapse of time is modified by coexistent emotion ; 
that is to say, an event which has strongly interested us will 
much more readily be associated with surrounding circum- 
stances, even after a long interval, than an event which 
awakened no emotion, though of more recent occurrence. 
Or, again, the objective and subjective laws may modify 
each other. Thus, we know that we associate ideas in 
obedience to the laws of resemblance or contrast, but whether 
we shall associate by the one, or the other, may depend 
upon the permanent or accidental tone of mind of the indi- 
vidual. Thus, if a cheerful scene be presented to a happy 
man, he associates by resemblance, a melancholy man by 
•/mtrast. The loveliness of spring to a mourner suggests 



ASSOCIATION OF IDEAS. 221 

m\y images of disappointed Hope and speedy dissolution 
To tne cheerful man even the gloom of -yinter awakens the 
anticipations of returning spring, and he thinks only of the 
contrast which, in a few months, will renew the whole face 
of nature. 

It is, in this manner, by the combination of these several 
laws, that the train of thought is directed. As these vari- 
ous causes operate w T ith unequal power at different times, 
and are modified by each other, and by the present circum- 
stances of each individual, there arises an infinite variety in 
the modes of mental association. Hence we should consider 
it almost miraculous if two men should be affected in exactly 
the same manner in precisely the same circumstances, so that 
they should give utterance to their sentiments in the same 
language. Yet, w T hile all this diversity is known to exist, 
we are conscious that it is still governed by laws ; for we 
recognize in an instant an abnormal or incoherent associa- 
tion, and attribute it at once either to idiocy or insanity. So 
delicate are our mental instincts, that he who knows nothing 
of the laws of association is intuitively aware when they 
are violated. 

It is on the perfection of this delicate instinct, which spon- 
taneously recognizes all the laws of association, that the 
power of the dramatist essentially depends. He forms con- 
ceptions of a variety of characters, and places them in cir- 
cumstances designed to call forth the intensest emotion. 
But these circumstances will affect each individual according 
to his peculiar idiosyncrasy. The dramatic poet has the 
power of throwing himself into each character, and of feeling 
instinctively the emotions to which such a human being, 
under such circumstances, would give utterance. This id 
eine of the rarest gifts with which genius is ever endowed. 
It is to this power that Shakspeare owes his preeminence. 
Considered simply as a poet, there arc other men of genius 
19* 



222 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 

with whom he may come into comparison ; but in dramatic 
exhibition of character he stands, by confession, without a 
rival. 

"Our Shakspeare's magic could not copied be; 
Within that circle none dare walk but he." 

It may seem, from what I have said, that associatior 
evinces a power beyond our control, and that hence we arc 
Dot responsible for our trains of thought, or the conse- 
quences to which they lead. This inference, it is almost un- 
necessary to add, is unwarranted. By association ideas are 
suggested, but it still depends on our own volition to deter- 
mine whether the suggestion shall be heeded. A thought 
is presented by the law of association ; we may accept or 
reject it. Two dissimilar thoughts are suggested, and we 
may select either of them at our option. When a particu- 
lar association is followed repeatedly, we form the habit of 
thinking in that particular train ; but the formation of that 
habit depended, at each successive step, upon our own will. 
It is, then, evident that the formation of our characters, 
whether intellectual or moral, is dependent on ourselves. 
Hence it is that circumstances are said to form men ; that is, 
the conditions in which we are placed accustom us to cer- 
tain modes of thinking, which, becoming habitual, render 
our character fixed and determinate. Hence, also, we see 
how much character depends upon energy of will, by which 
the development of our own powers ceases to be the result 
of accident, and follows in the line marked out for it by 
reasonable and predetermined choice. 

It has been truly remarked, that our associations are fre- 
quently the cause of great errors in judgment. When we 
repeatedly associate two ideas together, we are prone, with- 
out examination, to consider the connection by its nature 
indissoluble. Thus, in youth, having observed many good 



NATURE OF MEMORY. 223 

mer mr.mners of our own religious sect, we associate the 
ide;. of goodness with that sect, and. going further, consider 
piety exclusively confined within its limits. Having, again, 
experienced innumerable benefits arising from a republican 
government, we not only associate the idea of freedom and 
intelligence with our own institutions, but suppose that 
these advantages can be enjoyed under no other conditions 
of humanity A multitude of cases of a similar kind will 
readily suggest themselves. These errors are manifestly 
to be removed by a larger knowledge of the world, and a 
more careful and frequent examination of the reasons of 
our opinions. This subject is treated with great beauty 
and sound discrimination in Stewart's chapter on Associa- 
tion. 

REFERENCES. 

Stewart — Vol. i., chap. 5 ; Locke — Book 11, chap. 33 ; Reid — Essay 
4, chap. 4. 



SECTION II. — THE NATURE OF MEMORY. 

Memory is that faculty by which w T e retain and recall 
our knowledge of the past. I saw a tree yesterday. I 
know now that I saw it then and there. I have a concep- 
tion of a tree, with a certain knowledge that I saw the tree 
which corresponds to this conception, at some previous time 
How I know this I cannot tell, but my consciousness reveals 
it to me as positive and reliable knowledge. 

I have, in the above definition, ascribed but two func- 
tions to memory, — the power by which we retain, and that 
by which we recall, our knowledge of the past. The distinc- 
tion between these powers is easily observed, for they are 
Dot always bestowed in equal degrees. Some men retain 
their knowledge more perfectly than they recall it. Otheia 



224 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 

have their knowledge always at command, and make even 
email acquisitions eminently available. 

Stewart divides the first of these functions into suscepti- 
bility and retentiveness. A foundation for this distinction 
evidently exists. Some men acquire with great rapidity, 
but they veiy soon forget whatever they have learned. 
Others acquire with difficulty, but retain tenaciously the 
knowledge which they have once made their own. Others, 
again, as I have just remarked, have a remarkable command 
of their knowledge on all occasions. It must be evident 
that memory is perfect in the degree in which it is endowed 
with all these attributes. Men of the highest order of in- 
tellect are often preeminently gifted in all these respects. 
It will be sufficient to mention the names of Leibnitz, 
Milton, Johnson, Scott, Napoleon, Cuvier, Goethe, Sir W. 
Hamilton, in order to confirm the truth of this remark. 
Such men acquire with incredible facility, rarely forget any- 
thing which they have learned, and, at will, with remarkable 
accuracy, concentrate all their knowledge upon the point 
which they are at the moment discussing. 

The knowledge which we obtain by memory may prop- 
erly be called, in the words of Sir W. Hamilton, represen- 
tative and mediate, in distinction from presentative and 
immediate knowledge. When I see a tree, I am conscious 
of an immediate knowledge, the object being presented 
directly before my mind. When I remember a tree, there 
is no external object presented. The tree is represented by 
the act of the mind itself. I know the tree through the 
medium of this representation. The immediate object of 
my thought i3 this concef tion of the thing, while, by a power 
inherent in my intellect, I connect this image with the idea 
of past reality. That this is true, is evident from the fact 
that the mental state is precisely the same, whether the 
•bject at present is or is not existing. I remember a house 



NATURE OF MEMORY. 225 

which I saw a year ago. The image of it is distinctly be- 
fore my mind. I am told that the house has been burned 
down, and that nothing remains where it stood but a heap 
of smouldering ruins. This does not at all affect the imaire 
I have in my mind. The only difference in the two cases 
is, that before I contemplated it as the representation of 
something existing, now only of something that did exist. 

Concerning this faculty, as thus defined, several important 
facts may be observed. 

1. I have before remarked, when treating of the percep* 
tive faculties, that our knowledge derived from this source 
is of two kinds, simple and complex. Simple knowledge is 
merely a state of mind, a consciousness of a peculiar impres- 
sion made upon our sensitive organism, without giving us an 
intimation of anything external; a mere affection of the 
me, without any relation, to the not me. The other kind 
of knowledge is complex ; that is, together with this affection 
of the me, there is communicated to us a knowledge of the 
not me, in some of its modifications. In this latter case, 
we form a notion of the not me as something numerically 
distinct from the me. 

Whenever our knowledge is of the latter character, our 
recollection of it is always attended by a conception, and 
this conception forms a part of the act of memory. Sir 
W. Hamilton, on this account, happily describes memory as 
a recollective imagination. We have before us an image of 
the object remembered, and are conscious that it represents 
some past existence. Thus, when we remember a visible 
object, we form for ourselves a distmct conception of its ap- 
pearance. We never consider an act of memory complete 
antil this conception is created Thub, if I am asked 
whether I remember a village .vhich I passed through 
some years since, if I can rer.xll the conception of tho 
locality, I answer in the affirmative; if I only know ,hat 



226 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 

from chc route which I took I must have passed through it, 
but have no conception of its appearance, I answer in the 
negative. If, however, after an interval, I am able to recall 
it as I perceived it, I reply that now I recollect it. 

With respect to simple knowledge, or that which is 
limited to sensations, the case is different. We here form 
no conception, and the act of memory is imperfect I re- 
member, for instance, the visible appearance of a peach, its 
color, magnitude, form, etc., and I represent it to myself 
in thought. I have, however, no such recollection either of 
the smell or taste of the peach. I form no representation 
of these qualities, nor, so far as I know, am I able to do it. 
My recollection amounts to no more than this : I know 
that I have, at various times, both smelled and tasted of 
peaches, and that I should instantly recognize these qualities 
w ere they present ; but I can do no more. An exception 
to this remark is, however, to be made in the case of hearing. 
Here, though the knowledge is simple, that is, merely an 
affection of our sensitive organism, it is, however, capable 
of forming a conception. Hence, our recollection of it is 
remarkably perfect. After once hearing a tune, we can, 
if skilled in music, recall it with perfect accuracy, and can 
do it in perfect silence, merely forming a conception of the 
sounds by the memory. 

2. A complete act of the memory is always attended by 
belief. He who remembers, is conscious of an original con- 
/iction that the conception which he forms is the true repre 
uentativo of some preexisting knowledge. He knows it to 
ue, as has been said, a recollective imagination. How wo 
Li:ow this, how we are able to distinguish a simple imagina- 
tion from a recollective imagination, we are unable to ex- 
plain. Consciousness reveals to us the difference, and we can 
discover nothing beyond the simple fact. It has been said 
that we Learn to rely upon the testimony of memory by ex 



NATURE OF MEMORY. 227 

perience. This, lnwever, must be incorrect, for we evidently 
rely upon it anterior to experience. And, besides, the very 
experience on which we are here said to depend, presupposes 
the validity of the testimony of memory. Unless I rely on 
memory to give me a knowledge of the past, I can gain no 
experience respecting the character of memory itself. 

I am, however, aware that there are frequent cases in 
which, while we have a clear conception of an act, our recol- 
lection is imperfect, so that we doubt whether the state of 
mind be merely a conception or a recollection. Thus, I 
intended several days since to write a letter, and formed a 
purpose to write it at a particular time. The question now 
occurs to me, did I write it or not? When I think of the 
act, is my mental state that of recollection, or only of con- 
ception ; in other words, did I actually do it, or did I only 
resolve to do it ? Here our consciousness enables us to 
distinguish between certainty and doubt, though it does not 
enable us to resolve the doubt. So far, however, as I have 
observed, it is generally the fact that when we doubt the 
doubt i? entitled to precedence, and we find on inquiry that 
the thing was not done. When, on the other hand, the 
testimony of consciousness to our recollection is perfect, we 
rely upon it with as much certainty as on the present evi- 
dence of our senses. I am as sure that I saw a certain tree 
yesterday, as I was sure yesterday that I was then seeing 
it. It is upon this attribute of memory that all our belief 
of the existence of the past and the distant depends. We 
repose the same confidence in the memory of competent 
witnesses as in our own. I just as fully and perfectly be- 
lieve in the existence of Constantinople as of London, though 
the one I have seen and the other I have not seen. On 
this belief in the veracity of memory, all the evidence of 
testimony depends; and hence, with entire confidence in ita 



228 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 

validity, we proceed to decide questions involving property 
reputation, and life itself. 

It is proper here to remark, that this consciousness, hy 
which we determine a representation in our minds to be a 
recollection and not an imagination, is liable to be greatly 
impaired. He who forms the habit of deliberate lying, or 
of affirming that his conceptions are recollections, will grad- 
ually lose the power of distinguishing the one from the other. 
By passing from truth to falsehood and from falsehood to 
truth, without moral consciousness, the line which separates 
them from each other becomes more and more indistinct, 
until it is at last obliterated. I have known men who 
would utter the most absurd falsehoods, without seeming to 
be conscious either that they were lying or that their hear- 
ers knew them to be liars. A more just retribution for 
the abuse of our moral faculties cannot be conceived. 

Another peculiarity connected with this part of our sub- 
ject deserves to be remarked. We are sometimes led into 
innocent mistakes concerning our recollection. If we hear 
an event frequently related, until every minute incident is 
engraven on our recollection, we may, after a considerable 
period has elapsed, seem to ourselves to have witnessed it. 
I think it is Burke who says, " Never let a man repeat to 
you a lie. If he tell you a story every day which you know 
to be false, at the end of a year you will believe it to bo 
true." A distinguished justice of the Supreme Judicial 
Court of Massachusetts once related to me a case which 
pertinently illustrates this remark. He was once trying a 
cause relating to a will, and a lady testified most distinctly 
to some occurrences which she had witnessed when she was 
a child. Her evidence was distinct and minute as to all 
the circumstances of person, time, and place. She was a 
person of mature age, of a character above suspicion, and 
incapable of testifying to what she did not believe to Iw 



NATURE OF MEMORY. 229 

true. It uOwever appeared, in the course *>f the trial, from 
incontestable documentary evidence, that the events had 
transpired several years before she was born. When a girl 
dhe had heard the occurrence so frequently related, with 
great particularity, that in mature years it presented itself 
to her as a matter of personal knowledge rather than of 
recollection of the narrative of others. 

Lastly ; the act of memory involves two subordinate be- 
liefs. First, it presupposes a belief in the past existence of 
the object recollected ; and, secondly, in the past and present 
existence of the subject recollecting. From both of these 
we derive the idea of duration, for were there no duration, 
there could be no past existence ; that is, the idea of dura- 
tion logically precedes the idea of memory. From tho 
second of these beliefs we derive the idea of personal 
identity. The belief that we, who are now existing, cog- 
nized an object at any previous point in duration, supposes 
both the cognitions to appertain to the same subject; that is, 
that the ego in both these cognitions is one and the same. 

3. The power of recollection in different individuals 
differs greatly, both in degree and in kind. 

Some men are so remarkably gifted in this respect, that 
without apparent effort they seem to remember whatever they 
have read, and every person whom they have even casually 
seen. Others, though possessing many eminent qualities 
of intellect, find difficulty in recollecting the persons and 
things which daily surround them. Cyrus is reported to 
have been able to call by name every soldier in his army, 
and Themistocles to have known individually every citizen 
of Athens. I have been told that General Washington 
never found it necessary to be twice introduced to the same 
person. Boswell records of Dr. Johnson, that once, when 
riding in a stage-coach, he repeated with verbal accuracy 
a number of the Rambler, some ten or twelve years iftei 
20 



230 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 

its publication ; at the same time stating that he had not 
Been it since he corrected the original proof-sheets. In his 
life of Rowe he criticizes the poet's works with a very accu- 
rate conception of their merits, frequently quoting whole pas- 
sages as though he were transcribing them from the printed 
page. When he had finished it, he said to a friend, " I 
think this is pretty well done, considering that I have not 
read a play of Rowe's for thirty years." On the contrary, 
Montaigne, though a man of original genius, and one of the 
marked men of his age, was always complaining of the bad- 
ness of his memory. " I am forced," says he, " to call my 
servants by the names of their employments, or of the coun- 
tries where they were born, for I can hardly remember their 
proper names, and if I should live long, I question whether 
I should remember my own name." In this case there seems 
to be some peculiar idiosyncrasy; for while he forgot so 
readily the individual, he was able to remember the class to 
which he belonged. 

Differences of memory exist not only in degree, but in 
kind. 

I have already observed that some men are more remark- 
able for susceptibility, others for retentiveness, and others 
for readiness of memory. Every one who has observed the 
minds of young persons, must have seen frequent illustra- 
tions of the truth of this remark. But these differences do 
not terminate here. There exist what may not inappropri- 
ately be termed objective differences of memory; that is, this 
power seems in different individuals to manifest an affinity 
foi different classes of objects. Some men remember num- 
bers and dates with remarkable accuracy, and easily retain 
not only figures, but even long and complicated algebraio 
formulae. Other men remember permanently and without 
effort, localities, the faces of persons, and every form of 
external nature. Some have great facility in recollecting 



NATURE OjF MEM0R7. 231 

words and their relations to each other; and hence at an 
early age manifest a fondness for the study of language and 
the pursuits of philology. Others again, who are pos* 
sessed of none of these powers in a remarkable degree, 
acquire principles and general laws without effort, and will 
frequently remember the law, while they forget the facts by 
which it is established. It is said that the late Dr. Gall 
was first led to the investigations which terminated in his 
system of phrenology, by observing that some boys possessed 
peculiar skill in finding their way out of a forest, while 
others, under the same circumstances, would be completely 
bewildered. He remarked, that those of the first class were 
marked with a protuberance in the forehead just above the 
eye. He also observed that those who displayed a remark- 
able aptitude for languages were formed with a depression 
of the roof of the orbit of the eye, which gave to the eye 
the appearance of unusual fulness. Generalizing these ob- 
servations, he was led to conclude that every modification 
of mental character was accompanied by some corresponding 
peculiarity in the form of the brain. Whether there be the 
connection between the mental and physical organization 
which phrenologists assert, I will not determine ; but that they 
have aided us in remarking with greater exactness many 
peculiarities of mental constitution, may, I think, be fairly 
admitted. 

That these differences may be accounted for, in some 
degree, by education, I have no doubt. In the most re- 
markable instances, however, they seem to depend chiefly 
on natural endowment. I have known several persons who 
have been gifted with some of these forms of recollection in 
a very uncommon degree, and they have uniformly told me 
that the things which they remembered cost them no more 
pains than those which they forgot. All the account 
which they coul 1 give of the matter wa£, that some classes 



232 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 

of facts, without any special effort, remained permanently 
fixed in their recollection, while others were as readily for 
gotten by them as by other men. A highly-esteemed cler- 
gyman of Massachusetts, lately deceased, who could tell the 
year of the graduation of every alumnus of his university, 
and the minutest incidents relating to every ordination in 
his vicinity for the last half-century, assured me that it cost 
him no labor, but that it was, so far as he knew, a mental 
peculiarity. 

The large development of any particular form of memory 
is not, of necessity, accompanied by any other remarkable 
intellectual endowments. Instances have frequently been 
noticed of men, with prodigious powers of recollection, 
whose abilities in other respects were even below medi- 
ocrity. Very remarkable memory has even been observed 
in persons of so infirm an understanding that they did 
not even comprehend what they accurately repeated. In this 
case, probably, the power was mere susceptibility of memory ; 
that is, the power of acquiring on the instant, without the 
ability of permanent recollection. A very remarkable case 
of this one-sided power is mentioned in the life of the late 
Mr. Roscoe, of Liverpool. A young Welsh fisherman, of 
about the a^e of eighteen, was found to have made most re- 
markable progress in the study of languages. He was not 
only familiar with Latin and Greek, but also with Hebrew, 
Arabic, and other oriental dialects. Some benevolent gen- 
tlemen, in that city, provided means for giving him every 
literary advantage, in the hope that his vast acquisitions 
might be made useful to society, and also that he might un- 
fold the processes by which his singular attainments had 
been made. The attempt was, however, unsuccessful. He 
seemed not to be peculiarly capable of education, but, wit! 
the exception of this peculiar gift, hi 3 mind partook eutirelj 



NATURE OF MEMORY. 23$ 

of the character of the class with which he had hcen asso- 
ciated. 

4. The character of memory changes materially with 
age. 

Memory is one of our faculties which is developed at a 
very early age, specially in the characteristics of suscepti- 
bility and retentiveness. Of this any one will be convinced 
who will observe the prodigious number of particulars which 
a human being acquires almost in infancy. A child of four 
or five years old has already learned the names and uses 
of the ordinary objects which he sees around him ; and has 
acquired a tolerable knowledge of his native language. A 
boy, before he goes to school, is better acquainted with his 
mother tongue, than he will be with Latin and Greek after 
ten or twelve years of study. Nor is this all. Children 
educated in a family in w T hich several languages are spoken, 
learn them all with equal facility. 

As might, however, be expected, this faculty, which first 
comes to maturity, is also the first to decline. The first intel- 
lectual indication of advancing years is a conscious failure in 
the power of recollection. Y/hen the memory becomes im- 
paired from this cause, we do not forget so much the 
knowledge acquired in youth, as that acquired at a later 
period. Hence, old men recite the deeds of their youth, 
not those of maturer years. Horace describes an old man 
as laudator tem,povis acti The heroes of our revolution 
are never so well pleased as when relating the events of that 
illustrious struggle, and the reminiscences which they have 
treasured up of the career of Washington. The reason 
for this is two -fold. An event which transpires in youth 
awakens in us a deeper coexistent emotion than in age : and, 
secondly, the social character of youth leads us frequently 
to relate the incidents which please us. and hence every in 
teresting event becomes more deeply engraved on the mem 
20* 



234 INTELLECTUAL PHII JSOPHY. 

ory. To an old man, the later period of his life resembles a 
dream ; the period of youth and early manhood alone seems 
like reality. 

A3 old men are naturally inclined to recite the events of 
their youth, so this very recital is most pleasing to the 
young. A child wearies his parents with the request that 
they will tell him what they saw and did when they were 
young. We are all conscious of the eagerness with which 
we listen to the relation, by eye-witnesses, of occurrences 
which transpired sixty or seventy years since. The final 
cause of this arrangement is as obvious as it is beautiful. 
These corresponding dispositions were conferred upon us for 
the sake of binding together the young and the old by the 
tie of mutual sympathy. The tedium and infirmity of age 
is beguiled and alleviated by the society of youth ; and the 
young are taught those lessons of experience, which they 
would seek for in vain from those who, like themselves, are 
just commencing the warfare of life. 

From these facts, we learn the more correctly to appre- 
ciate the importance of a diligent and well-spent youth. If 
the spring-time of life is consumed in frivolity and sin, the 
mind, in the winter of age, must sink into decrepitude ; and 
nothing will present itself to the memory, but the recollec- 
tion of deeds which tinge the cheek with shame, and goad 
the conscience with remorse. If, on the other hand, the 
memory is stored in youth with valuable knowledge, and the 
faculties are disciplined by strenuous exertion, we sow the 
seeds of a green old age ; that condition in which, without 
the vigor and elasticity of youth, there exist the accumu- 
lated knowledge of a laborious life, and the calm, ripe wis- 
dom of a large experience. If to these be added the con- 
sciousness of purity of motive, and the beautiful simplicity 
which results from a virtuous life, old age becomes one of 
the most favored periods of our present state. It nay then 



NATURE OF MEMORY. 235 

bo worth while for the young to remember, that while dili- 
gence and mental discipline afford the only reasonable hope 
for success in manhood, they present the only security 
against the evils of an imbecile, unhappy, and neglected old 
age. 

It is to be remarked, further, that the memory of youth 
differs in kind, as well as in degree, from that of maturer 
life. In youth, as might be expected, we remember facts ; 
as we advance in age, we observe, appreciate, and remem- 
ber laws and their relations. In the early period of life, we 
collect the materials ; as we grow older, we learn to use 
them. In youth our tendency is to the objective and con- 
crete ; in maturer years we tend to the subjective and the 
abstract. If we were to be more particular, we might 
affirm, that in childhood susceptibility seems more active ; 
in youth, retentiveness ; ar,d in manhood readiness. In 
childhood, as I have said, we learn a multitude of things 
wbich we soon forget. The ordinary events of the first 
four or five years of our lives soon pass into oblivion. In 
advancing youth, while we lose in some degree- the power 
of committing to memory, we retain what we have learned 
much more tenaciously. I have remarked on the facility 
with which young persons will learn several languages at 
Oho same time, and, what is scarcely possible for an adult, 
ihey will learn them idiomatically.* It is, however, a singu- 

* A singular confirmation of this remark is found in the life of Dr. 
Carey the pioneer Protestant missionary in India. Dr. Carey had a de- 
cided 'alent for languages, and acquired them with great facility before ha 
left England. When he arrived in Bengal with his family, he commenced 
the study of the native tongues with his usual perseverance, assisted t>y 
the best helps, both printed and oral, which the country then afforded 
His children, without any instruction, wore left to amuse themselves with 
natives of their own age. It was not long before the father was obliged 
to call in his children to explain to him phrases am', idioms whieh he vrai 
unable to understand. They had learned, by playing with their folh ws, 
more rapidly than he by tW combined aid of books and punditd. 



236 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 

lar fact, that if a young person stulies an ancient language 
as Latin or Greek, and, from change of residence, forgets hia 
native tongue, he will remember the language which he ac- 
quired by grammatical study, longer than his vernacular. 
This difference may arise either from the fact that reten- 
tiveness of memory increases with age, or because whatever 
is learned by a protracted effort is more indelibly fixed in 
the recollection. 

5. Memory may be improved in a shorter time, and t» a 
greater extent, than any of our other faculties. 

The change that may be produced in this respect is i a- 
quently remarkable. Pupils in a school may, in a fiW 
months, be taught to commit to memory an amount which, at 
first, would have seemed incredible. It is not difficult to 
teach a class to recite from beginning to end the acquisitions 
of a whole term, without any aid from the instructor. A 
gentleman with whom I am well acquainted, informed me 
that he once determined to ascertain the extent to which the 
improvement of his memory could be carried. Hf soon 
found himself able to repeat verbatim, two or three p* ges of 
any book after it had been read to him only once. He was 
able to go into a legislative assembly, and write dowj from 
recollection, after its adjournment, the proceedings of the 
day, with as much accuracy as they were reported* by the 
stenographers. 

While, however, it is generally true, that the memory may 
be greatly and permanently improved by judicious practice, 
It is probable that the rapid improvement, of which we have 
frequent instances, has respect more tc susceptibility, than 
either to retentiveness or readiness. What we acquire so 
suddenly is learned only for a particular occasion ; %nd 
when the occasion has passed away, all we have learned has 
passed away with it. Clergymen, who with case commit 
their sermons by once or twice reading them over, are obliged 



NATURE OF MEMORY. 237 

to commit them anew as often as they are called to dclive* 
them. When we desire to cultivate the memory in general, 
and render our knowledge permanently available, greater 
care is necessary. The process is more difficult, and must 
be conducted on principles which depend on the general law 3 
of the human mind. 

The following case, related by Dr. Abercrombie, illus- 
trates the extent to which the susceptibility of memory may 
be increased by the pressure of circumstances. " A distin- 
guished theatrical performer, in consequence of the sudden 
illness of another actor, had occasion to prepare himself, on 
very short notice, for a part which was entirely new to him ; 
and the part was long, and rather difficult. He acquired it 
in a very short time, and went through it with perfect accu- 
racy, but, immediately after the performance, forgot every 
word of it. Characters which he has acquired in a more 
deliberate manner he never forgets, and can perform them 
at any time without a moment's preparation ; but, in regard 
to the character now mentioned, there was the further and 
very singular fact, that, though he has repeatedly performed 
it since that time, he has been obliged each time to prepare 
it anew, and has never acquired in regard to it that facility 
which is familiar to him in other instances. When ques- 
tioned respecting the mental process which he employed the 
first time he performed this part, he says that he lost sight 
entirely of the audience, and seemed to have nothing before 
him but the pages of the book from which he had learned 
it ; and that, if anything had occurred to interrupt this illu- 
Bl)n, he should have stopped instantly." — .Abercrombie, 
Part 3, section 1. 

0. The power of recollection depends much . n the man- 
ner in which our knowledge has been acquired. 

Knowledge acquired by the assistance of our perceptive 
faculties, is much longer remembered than that acquired b^ 



238 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY 

eonception through the medium of language. An i, further, 
& proposition which can in any manner be represented by an 
image is more easily remembered than a purely abstract 
proposition, of which no image can be formed. We remem- 
ber a landscape far better by having seen it, than by tho 
most elaborate description. Every one knows that the 
scenery depicted in the writings of travellers and novelists 
leaves scarcely a trace on the recollection. A machine may 
be described to us with the most careful particularity, and 
we may be able distinctly to comprehend it ; yet, if we see 
neither it nor a model of it, we soon find that our recollec- 
tion has become exceedingly shadow} 7- and vague. The use 
which may be made of this fact is evident. It teaches us 
the importance of illustrating, by figures, diagrams, or ex- 
periments, whatever we desire to communicate to others, 
wherever the subject admits of it. Hence the use of a 
black-board in a class-room; and hence the value of skill 
in drawing, to an instructor, in every branch of physical 
science. 

7. It is, however, the fact, that, in our present state, time 
gradually obliterates the impressions made upon the memory. 
What we learned yesterday, may be fresh in our recollection 
to-day, but we shall remember it much less perfectly in a 
month. If a year elapse without having had occasion to 
recall it, it will in a great degree have faded away from our 
recollection. I say, in a great degree; for, although the 
principle which it involves, or the conclusion which it estab- 
lishes, may remain, the sharp and definite outline of the 
facts will have dissolved into forgetfulness. In this respect, 
WO are all the victims of a perpetually recurring delusion. 
It seems to us that what we remember so perfectly, and 
understand so clearly, to-day, can never be forgotten. 
Though repeated trials, and lamentable ignorance of wbai 
We have once known, might seem sufficient to convince us of 



NATURE OF MEMORY. 23;} 

cur error we press blindly onward, ever learning, and yet 
ever failing permanently to treasure up what we have 
already acquired. 

While this, however, is the general fact, it is subject to 
several modifications. Some of these are the following : 

1. Exact and definite knowledge is much longer remem- 
bered than vague and indefinite conceptions. A proposition 
but half known, and indistinctly conceived, is almost imme- 
diately forgotten ; while that which we have thoroughly 
thought, and adequately comprehended, does not easily 
escape us. Hence we see that our progress in knowledge 
does not so much depend upon the amount which we read 
as upon the manner in which we study. He who reviews 
his past history will observe that his present acquisitions are 
the sum of all that he has at some time thoroughly learned. 
That which was only imperfectly understood is lost in the 
mass of confused and useless reminiscences. 

2. An isolated proposition is soon forgotten, while one 
of which we perceive the connections and relations is more 
easily remembered. A single number, as the height of a 
mountain, the area of a field, the page of a book, a law of 
mechanics expressed in abstract terms, or any truth viewed 
without relation to any other truth, easily eludes our recol- 
lection. We obviate this difficulty, if we can establish any 
relation, even though it be but fanciful, between the fact 
which we desire to remember, and some other truth perma- 
nently known. Thus, if we wish to remember the height 
of a mountain, we associate it with the height of some well- 
known object, and we find our power of recollection 
increased. If we associate a law with the facts for which 
it accounts, the same effect is produced. It is on the prin- 
ciple of associating something to be remembered, ^ith some- 
thing else well known, that the systems of artificial memory 
are constructed. 



240 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 

3. Knowledge which is beginning to vanish from oui 
recollection is rendered more permanent by even a cursory 
review. By occasionally repeating this review, the truth 
Decomes incorporated with our permanent knowledge. It is 
a good rule never to commence the reading of to-day, until 
we have carefully reviewed the reading of yesterday, and 
never to lay aside a book until we have leisurely imprinted 
on oar minds its most important truths. Conversation on 
what we have read is of great service in this respect. I 
think it is Johnson who mentions that it was his custom, in 
youth, as soon as he had finished a book, to find some one 
to whom he could explain its principles. Full and free 
discussion upon the truths which we have acquired, gives not 
only permanency but definiteness to our knowledge. It is 
on this account that studious men derive so much advantage 
from associating together, and communicating the result of 
their researches for the benefit of each other. 

8. From remarkable and well-authenticated facts, it ap- 
pears that, probably from some unexplained condition of the 
material organs, the recollection of knowledge long since 
obliterated may be suddenly revived. These cases have been 
observed to occur most frequently in extreme .sickness, and 
on the near approach of death. May it not be that, in our 
present state, the material and immaterial part of man being 
intimately united, our failure of recollection is caused by 
some condition of the material organism ; and that, as this 
union approaches dissolution, the power of the material over 
the immaterial is weakened, and the knowledge which we 
have once acquired is more fully revealed to our conscious- 
ness, indicating that when the separation is complete it will 
remain with us forever ] 

A variety of cases are mentioned by writers on this sub- 
ject, a few of which are here inserted : 

An instance is mentioned by Coleridge of a servant-gir 



NATURE OF MEMORY. 241 

in Germany, who, in extreme sickness, was observed to 
repeat passages of Greek, Latin and Hebrew, though she 
was known to have no acquaintance with these languages. 
Upon inquiry into her history, it was found that, many years 
before, she had been a domestic in the family of a learned 
professor, who was in the habit of repeating aloud passages 
from his favorite authors while walking in his study, which 
adjoined the apartment in which she was accustomed to labor. 
This case is the more remarkable, inasmuch as the person 
had never been conscious herself of having acquired the 
knowledge which she, under these circumstances, exhibited. 

The Rev. Mr. Flint, a very intelligent gentleman, who, in 
a. series of interesting letters, has related his experiences in 
the valley of the Mississippi, informs us that, under a des- 
perate attack of typhus fever, as his attendants afterwards 
told him, he repeated whole pages from Virgil and Homer, 
which he had never committed to memory, and of which, 
after his recovery, he could not recollect a line. 

Dr. Abercroinbie, in his work on intellectual philosophy, 
mentions a variety of cases in which persons in extreme sick- 
ness, and under operations for injuries of the head, con- 
versed in languages which they had known in youth, but had 
for many years entirely forgotten. 

Dr. Rush mentions the case of an Italian gentleman, who 
died of yellow fever in New York, who, in the beginning of 
his sickness, spoke English; in the middle of it, French; 
hut on the day of his death, nothing but Italian. A Lu- 
theran clergyman informed Dr. Rush that the Germans and 
Swedes of his congregation in Philadelphia, when near 
death, always prayed in their native languages, though some 
of them, he was confident, had not spoken them for fifty or 
sixty years. 

Dr. Abercrombie mentions another case, of a bey, who, at 
the age of four, received a fracture of the skull, for which 
21 



242 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 

he underwent the operation of the trepan. He was at the 
time in a state of perfect stupor ; and, after his recovery, 
retained no recollection either of the accident or of the opera- 
tion. At the age of fifteen, during the delirium of a fever, 
be gave his mother a correct description of the operation, 
and the persons who were present at it, with their dress and 
ether minute particulars. He had never been observed to 
allude to it before, and no means were known by which he 
could have acquired a knowledge of the circumstances which 
he related. 

What conclusion we are authorized to draw from theso 
facts, it is difficult to determine. They, however, indicate 
that what Ave seem to forget, can never be irretrievably lost 
to the percipient soul. The means for recalling it in some 
inexplicable manner appear to exist, and when, under some 
unknown conditions, they are called into action, all or any 
part of our knowledge may, on the instant, be brought to 
our recollection. 

The moral lesson which these facts inculcate is obvious. 
If every impression made upon the mind is to remain 
upon it forever, if the soul be a tablet from which nothing 
that is written is ever erased, how great is the importance 
of imbuing it with that knowledge which shall be a source 
of joy to us as long as we exist ! And, again ; since knowl- 
edge which lies so long dormant may be revived unex- 
pectedly, under conditions which we cannot foresee, and at 
times when it may have the most important bearing upon 
our decisions and our destiny, it is of the greatest conse- 
quence to us to store the mind with such knowledge as shall 
invigorate our principles and confirm our virtue. He who 
leads a corrupting book for pastime may thoughtlessly lay 
it down, and suppose that in a few days all the images which 
it has created will have passed from his remembrance for- 
ever. But these latent ideas may be recalled by some casual 



NATURE OF MEMORY. 243 

association or some physical condition of the brain, and give 
that bias to his mind, in the hour of temptation, -which will 
determine him to a course that shall tend to his final 
undoing. 

It may not be inappropriate here to suggest the harmony 
between this condition of memory and the scripture doctrine 
of a general judgment. The teaching of the New Testa- 
ment on this subject is, that the whole race of man will be 
summoned before God, to be judged according to the deeds 
done in the body. We can easily perceive how all this may 
be done, if the view which we have taken on this subject be 
correct. Suppose every being to be perfectly conscious of 
all the events of his past life, and of all the obligations 
which he has violated, and his character in a spiritual world 
to be as manifest to others as it is to himself; and the judg- 
ment concerning every individual must be immediately 
formed by the whole universe. No examination is needed, 
for the facts which in each case form the basis of the con 
demnation are apparent to all. Like choosing its like, the 
good would be separated from the bad ; and the decision pro- 
nounced by the Judge would be reechoed back from the 
conscience of every individual, with the assent of every 
moral intelligence. 

It may be well, in closing this section, to refer to some 
singular effects produced on memory by disease. They 
do not come under any law with which I am acquainted, 
yet they deserve to be recorded for the purpose of directing 
attention to the. subject. It is by the observation of anom- 
alous cases in science, that we are led to the discovery of 
new and important laws. 

Sometimes, in consequence pf injury or disease, the mem- 
ory of a particular period is lost altogether, while what 
occurred both before and after that period is remembered 
with accuracy Dr. Beattie mentions the case of a clergy- 



244 ISTELLECTrAl PHILOSOPHY. 

man who. in consequence of an apoplectic attack, lost tho 
recollection of precisely four years. 

Sometimes the loss of memory relates to particular per- 
son s. Dr. Abercrombie mentions the case of a surgeon who 
wa3 thrown from his horse and carried into a neighboring 
house in a state of insensibility. From this he soon recov- 
ered, and gave minute and correct directions respecting hia 
own treatment. In the evening he was so much relieved, 
that he was removed to his own house. The medical friend 
who accompanied him in the carriage made some observa- 
tion respecting the precautions necessary to be observed to 
prevent unnecessary alarm to his family, when, to his as- 
tonishment, he discovered that his friend had lost all idea 
of having either a wife or children. It was not until the 
third day that the circumstances of his past life began to 
recur to his mind. 

Cases have occurred in which, from an injury to the head, 
the knowledge of a particular language has been lost. In 
other cases, not a language but a particular class of words 
has been dropped from the recollection. A case is men- 
tioned, in which a patient suffered from an attack of apo- 
plexy. On his recovery, he had lost the power of pronounc- 
ing or writing either proper names or any substantive, 
while his memory supplied adjectives in profusion. He 
would speak of any one whom he wished to designate, by 
calling him after the shape or color for which he was dis- 
tinguished ; calling one man " red, from the color of hia 
hair, and another " tall," from his stature; asking for hia 
hat as " black," and his coat as " brown." As he was a 
good botanist, he was acquainted with a vast number of 
plants, but he could never call them by their names. A 
similar instance occurred, lately, in Livingston county, Ne* 
York. 

A remarkable case is mentioned in the life of Rev. Wtt 



NATURE OF MEMORY. 245 

Tennent, a distinguished clergyman of New Jersey, about 
the middle of the last centurv. While prosecuting hia 
studies preparatory to the ministry, he was taken ill and 
apparently died. After lying for some days without man- 
ifesting any signs of life, he was resuscitated and recov- 
ered. When he regained his health, it was found that ho 
had lost all knowledge of the past, and was obliged to com- 
mence his studies anew, beginning at the alphabet. He had 
proceeded in this manner for some time, and had advanced 
as far as the Latin grammar, when, on a sudden, he placed 
his hand on his head, complaining of violent pain, and, on 
the instant, his former knowledge had returned to him just 
as it existed previous to his illness. The whole amount ia 
very remarkable, but I believe its authenticity to be above 
suspicion. 

Of these, and a vast number of similar facts, I believe our 
present knowledge is unable to furnish us with any expla- 
nation. They deserve to be recorded as material for future 
investigation. Subsequent inquirers may be enabled to use 
them so as to point out more clearly the connection between 
the mind and the material organism, and thus enlarge our 
knowledge of our intellectual faculties and the conditions of 
their exercise. 

REFERENCES. 

Nature of memory — Reid, Essay 3, chap. 1; Stewart, vol. i., chap. 6. 

Implies the power of retaining and recalling — Stewart, vol. i., chap. 6 f 
fee. 1. Locke, Booh 2, chap. 10, sec. 1, 2, 8 ; chap. 19, sec. 1. 

Includes susceptibility, retentiveness and readiness — Stewart, vol. i., 
chap. 6, sec. 2. 

An original faculty — Reid, Essay 3, chap. 2. 

Involves conception — Reid, Essay 3, chap. 1; Stewart, vol. i., chap. 6, 
Bee. 1. 

Attended with belief of past existence and personal identity — Reid, 
Essay 3, chaps. 1, 4, 6. 

Varies in dilfereut individuals — Abercrombie, Part 3, sec. l, Stewart, 
?ol i., chap. G, sec. 1, 2. 

21* 



246 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 

Local and philosophical memory — Abercrombie, Part 3, sec. 1. 
Greatly improvable — Stewart, vol. i. , chap. 6. 

Objects which awaken emotion easily remembered — Stewart, voX \ 
ehap. 6, sec. 1 

Ideas fade from memory — Locke, Book 2, chap. 10, sees. 4, 5. 

Reviewing fixes knowledge — Abercrombie, Part 4. 

Effect of disease on memory — Abercrombie, Part 3, sec. 1. 



SECTION III. — THE IMPORTANCE OF MEMORY. 

In treating of this subject, I shall consider, first, the re* 
lation of memory to our other faculties ; and, secondly, the 
importance of a cultivated memory to professional success. 

I. The relation between memory and our other intel- 
lectual faculties. 

Memory is not necessary either to perception or con- 
sciousness. We could see, and hear, and feel, and be con- 
scious of all the operations of our faculties, as well without 
memory as with it. It is not necessary to some acts of orig- 
inal suggestion. Without it we might have a notion of 
existence, both objective and subjective. We could not, 
however, without it, form those original suggestions which 
involve the idea of succession. Thus, without it, we could 
have no notion either of duration or of cause and effect. 

Memory, on the other hand, is essential to the existence 
of all those ideas into which the element of time enters. 
Without it our whole knowledge would consist of the im- 
pressions made upon us now and here. Our intellectual 
existence would thus be reduced to a single point. Whatever 
we had known previously to the present moment, whatever 
ideas had occupied our minds before the one which now 
occupies them, would be blotted out forever. Hence, though 
we could form a notion of that which was immediately be- 
fore us, we could not retain thct notion, or anything corre- 



IMPORTANCE OF MEMORY. 247 

sponding to it, after it was withdrawn. Being unable to 
form conceptions, we could perform no acts either of analy- 
sis, generalization, or combination. We could form no 
notion of classes, and could have no general ideas. Wo 
could exercise no power, of association, for there would bo 
nothing within the scope of our mental vision, except the 
single idea with which we were at the moment occupiel. 
Equally impossible would it be for us to reason. We reason 
by the comparison of propositions ; but every proposition in- 
volves two ideas, and one of these must designate a class ; 
and without memory, as I have remarked, the notion of 
classes would be impossible. But if this be true of the sin- 
gle propositions which form a syllogism, how much stronger 
is the case when we consider the syllogism itself, and, still 
more, the series of syllogisms which form an argument. 

Thus, memory holds an intermediate place between those 
mental acts into which time does and those into which it does 
not enter. It originates nothing ; it gives us no new ideas : 
it merely retains the ideas given us by the originating fac- 
ulties, and presents them to those other faculties whose 
office it is, by modifying, comparing, and combining, to 
eniarge our knowledge, and extend indefinitely the range 
of human intelligence. Thus, though memory originates 
nothing, yet, without it, the faculties which originate would 
be useless. Though it neither analyzes nor compares. 
without it, the powers by which we analyze and comparo 
might as well not exist. Were we possessed of this alone, 
our existence would be an absolute blank ; yet, possessed 
of every other but this, our existence would be reduced to 
a single point. If this be the relation which memory sus- 
tains to our other faculties, it must evidently be one of the 
most invaluable of our intellectual endowments. The greater 
the perfection in which it exists, the broader foundation a 
bud for the exercise of our powers of analysis, combination 



248 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 

and reasoning The more accurately we retain and the 
more promptly we recall our knowledge of the past, the 
richer is our supply of material for every form of intellectual 
exercise. 

II. The importance of a cultivated memory to pro- 
fessional success. 

By a cultivated memory, I mean a memory so improved 
by education that it can treasure up with ease, retain with 
firmness, and recall with promptitude, the knowledge ac- 
quired by the other faculties. 

1. Without such a memory it is evident that reading 
must be,- to a great degree, useless. Without it, a man may 
be what Horace calls a " helluo librornm" a devourer of 
books ; but he will rarely be anything more. We some- 
times meet with men of this class, omnivorous readers, who 
seize upon books with avidity, with no other object than, 
either present enjoyment, or the reputation of vast general 
knowledge. They are pleased with the images spread be- 
fore them. These pass away to be succeeded by others, 
until the labor is completed, and nothing remains: but a 
confused recollection of pleasant or painful emotions, and 
the consciousness that another unit has been added to the 
number of books which they have read. It is evident that 
a man may read, in this manner, forever, without any in- 
crease of mental energy, or any real addition to the amount 
of his knowledge. 

2. A cultivated memory is also indispensable to a vigor- 
ous imagination. Imagination is the power of forming com- 
plex conceptions out of materials already existing in the 
mind. But it is evidently impossible to combine into im- 
ages elements which we have never collected, or which, if we 
have previously collected, we are unable to recall. Hence, 
we find that those authors who have been remarked foi 
boundless fertility of imagination have always been endowed 



IMPORTANCE OF MEMORY. 249 

with the highest gifts of memory. Scott, Goethe, Coleridge, 
Milton, Macauley, might be easily referred to as illustrations. 
A distinguished poet must be an intense and accurate ob- 
server of nature, and the conceptions formed from actual 
observation must be the materials from which he create? 
the images of beauty or sublimity which please or subdue 
us. The case is similar in philosophical imagination. Un- 
less we are possessed of all the facts in a phenomenon or a 
series of phenomena, we can never form any adequate con- 
ception of the rationale which binds them together in one 
scientific idea. Without an accurate knowledge of the facts 
in astronomy, Copernicus could never have formed his idea 
of the solar system. 

3. The importance of a cultivated memory to reasoning 
is equally obvious. Reasoning is a series of mental acts by 
which we pass from the known to the unknown. "Whenever 
a proposition is capable of being proved, there exist certain 
other propositions, which connect it indissolubly with truths 
already known. These intermediate propositions are called 
the argument or proof. Suppose, now, that we desire to 
demonstrate a particular proposition ; if we can summon at 
will all that we have ever known on the subject, we can 
easily determine whether we possess the required media 
of proof. If, on the other hand, our knowledge is vague 
and undetermined, and we are unable to recall it to our 
recollection, we weary ourselves and perplex others by mul- 
tiplying irrelevant truths by which nothing is determined. 
The value of this power is specially illustrated in the case of 
forensic or legislative orators. They are frequently obliged to 
construct an argument, or reply to an opponent, when there 
is neither opportunity for consulting authorities nor examin- 
ing digests. All that can possibly avail a man is the knowl- 
edge which he has previously acquired, and he must be abla 
W bring it tu bear it once on the point at issue, or the op 



250 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 

portunity is lost forever. On thfe power must, therefore, 
frequently depend the skill of a debater, or the success of 
an advocate. 

4. A cultivated memory is necessary to the attainment 
of accuracy of practical judgment. 

By practical judgment I mean an ability to predict tha 
future from a knowledge of the past, and to form an opinion 
of the doubtful from a knowledge of the true. This talent, 
more than almost any other, gives us influence among men ; 
and sometimes seems, in the most favored individuals, to at- 
tain almost to the certainty of prescience. Burke, in his 
writings on the French Revolution, predicted the course of 
events almost precisely as they subsequently occurred. 
Other skilful statesmen have been able, from the present 
aspect of affairs, to anticipate the changes which were ap- 
proaching in the distance. Several of Napoleon's predic- 
tions of the course of events in Europe, have been, in a re- 
markable manner, verified by the political revolutions that 
have occurred since his death. 

The dependence of this talent upon memory is easily per- 
ceived. As our judgments respecting the future must pro- 
ceed upon the supposition that the course of nature is uni- 
form, how can we predict the future without a knowledgo 
of the past 1 But mere general and indefinite knowledge 
will not here suffice. He who would attain to soundness of 
judgment must possess himself of facts in particular, with 
the circumstances by which thev were surrounded, the limi- 
tations by which they were fixed, and the conditions under 
which they existed. This, of course, supposes an accurate 
ani cemprchensive memory. We shall find that the most 
eminently sagacious men have been favored with a memory 
of this character. Of this type of mind Dr. Franklin 
geems to preseit a remarkable instance. 

But this, of itself, wilJ not confer that eminerce of prao 



IMPORTANCE OF MEMORY. 251 

Heal judgment to which we here refer. We freqaenti^ 
:<e men capable of amassing a vast collection of facts. 
..re all thrown together at random, and ever remain 
in a state of chaotic confusion. Their knowledge has neither 
kssoeiaied by scientific relations, nor classified accord - 
-:.tblished principles ; hence it is useless for the jur- 
poses of investigation, and can form the basis of no pre- 
judgment. It consists of merely isolated facts, from 
which no general principles have been deduced, and hence it 
furnishes no rules for future conduct. Such a man, though 
ever so extensively read, will ever be incapable of the wise 
conduct of afiairs. Men are frequently pointed out as walk- 
ing libraries, to whom every one applies for the knowledge 
of a foot, but to whose opinion no one would defer in any 
case of practical importance. Thus, we see that those 
powers by which knowledge is rendered available must be 
••veil as those by which it is acquired, if wo 
would attain to soundness of judgment in the practical af- 

- of life. 

I am, however, aware tl.at, to these, other elements must 

be added, in order to form the character of which we are 

To a cultivated understanding, a retentive and 

memory, must be united great freedom from preju- 

- w vincible love of truth, decided moral courage, and 
firm rebance on the decisions of the human intellect, if we 
would realize that conception of practical wisdom which 

e where happily denominates '" large round-about 

common sense." Without freedom from prejudice we shall 

look upon the plainest facts through a distorted medium. 

a have no real love of truth we shall never take the 

arrive at it. If we are deficient in 

n the decisions of our own ii. DO matter how 

' y we may comprehend our position, we shall nevei 

.onclusion. And without moral ooui 



252 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 

whatever be our conclusions, we shall never dare to carry 
them into practice. In this, as in every other case, we per- 
ceive that moral qualities form the most important elements 
of human character. Hence we see that actual ability 
depends greatly upon the cultivation of our own nature 
and is placed more within our own reach than might at first 
be supposed. 

The distinction between mere learning and that practica.1 
wisdom by which all learning is made available to the pur- 
poses of science, or the exigences of practical life, is well 
illustrated by Cowper in his Task, one of the most delightful 
poems in the English language. 

/" Knowledge and Wisdom, far from being one, 
Have ofttimea no connection. Knowledge dwells 
In heads replete with thoughts of other men ; 
Wisdom, in minds attentive to their own. 
Knowledge, a rude unprofitable mass, 
The mere material with which Wisdom builds, 
Till smoothed, and squared, and fitted to its place, 
Does but encumber what it seemed to enrich. 
Knowledge is proud that he has learned so much. 
Wisdom is humble that he knows no more. 
Books are, not seldom, talismans and spells, 
By which the magic art of shrewder wits 
Holds an unthinking multitude enthralled. 
Some to the fascination of a name 
Surrender judgment hood-winked. Some the style 
Infatuates, and, through labyrinths and wilds 
Of error, leads them by a tune entranced. 
While sloth seduces more, too weak to bear 
The unsupportable fatigue of thought, 
And swallowing, therefore, without pause or choice» 
The total grist unsifted, husks and all." 
V^ Winter Walk at Noow. 

If these renviiks be true, it seems remarkable that th« 
question should ever have arisen, whether a powerful 






IMPORTANCE 3F MEMORY. Si53 



memory is compatible with great soundness of judgment. 
We see, from the above considerations, that soundness of 
judgment, without a fair development of memory, is impos- 
sible. The mistake on this subject has probably arisen 
from two misconceptions. In the first place, a cultivated 
and disciplined memory has been confounded with a miscel- 
laneous and unclassified collection of facts. In the second 
place, the abuse of memory has been confounded with the 
use of it. Memory is properly used when it is employed 
to recall our previous knowledge, in order to deduce from it 
laws which shall govern our future conduct. It is abused 
when w r e employ it merely for the purpose of recalling 
precedents which shall enable us blindly to follow our file- 
leader. Here it usurps the place of judgment, and renders 
us servile copyists and imbecile imitators. When we use it 
to furnish facts, which, by comparison and generalization, 
shall enable us to form judgments, we derive from it the 
benefit which the Creator intended. 

That remarkable powers of memory are commonly asso- 
ciated with other distinguished endowments, might be easily 
shown by instances. I have already alluded to several men 
of genius, who possessed unusual retentiveness and readiness 
of memory. I do not, however, remember any individual 
in whom this combination was so remarkable as the late 
Emperor Napoleon. He used to say of himself, that his 
knowledge was all laid away in drawers, and that he had 
only to open the proper drawer, and all that he had 
acquired on that particular subject was at once presented 
before him. It was, I think, at the Congress of Erfurt, 
that he astonished the sovereigns of Europe by the minute- 
ness of his knowledge of historic dates. When they ex- 
pressed their surprise that he should have been aide to attain 
such extraordinary accuracy amidst the pressure o[' Imbues* 
With which he had been so long overwhelmed, he replied, 
22 



254 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 

that hia acquisitions of this kind were made when he was « 
lieutenant of artillery, and was for a considerable period 
quartered in the house of a bookseller ; besides, added he, I 
had always great facility in the recollection of numbers. 
The diligent improvement of time, in youth, thus laid the 
foundation for the success of the future arbiter of Europe. 

I have pursued this subject to a greater extent than 
*mght have seemed necessary, did I not suppose that the im- 
portance of this faculty is frequently underrated, especially 
by young men. If a man succeed in almost any depart- 
ment of intellectual labor, it is often said, by way of dispar- 
agement, that his effort is nothing but the result of unusual 
memory. Were this the fact, it would still be true, that the 
cultivation of memory to high perfection, so that our past 
knowledge is always available in every emergency, is neither 
an ordinary nor a contemptible attainment. But the asser- 
tion is commonly unfounded. While distinguished success. 
in any department, can rarely be attained by the exercise of 
memory alone, it is equally true that the noblest powers 
would be continually liable to mortifying failure without it. 
Let us, then, labor to cultivate this faculty by every means 
in our power, always remembering that we shall derive from 
it the greatest advantage, not by allowing it to supersede 
the use of the other faculties, but by training it to act in 
subordination to them. He who reasons without facts must 
always proceed in the dark ; while he who relies on isolated 
facts, neither using his powers of generalization nor reason- 
ing, must be willing to remain always a child. 



SECTION IV. — THE IMPROVEMENT OP MEMORY. 

From the preceding remarks, it is evidently of great 
importance to every educated man to be able to acquire 



IMPROVEMENT OF MEMORY. 255 

knowledge rapidly, to retain it permanently, aud to recall 
it with ease. To confer upon us this power, or, at lea3t 
to improve it, is one important object of intellectual disci- 
pline. I shall proceed to illustrate some of the general 
principles on which the improvement of memory depends. 
My object is purely practical. I desire merely to present 
such views of the subject as will enable us to give increased 
efficiency to this important faculty. The facts which wo 
have to present are all within the range of every man's 
consciousness. But though nothing be added to our stock 
of knowledge, something may, perhaps, be gain?d, if what 
we already know can be directed more clearly to a valuable 
end. 

1. Memory, whether we consider its susceptibility, reten- 
tiveness, or readiness, is strengthened only by habitual aud 
earnest use. If unemployed, or not employed in diligent 
study, its power will gradually diminish. This may be 
illustrated in a variety of particulars. 

Let a man find it necessary, for any particular purpose, 
to remember an event, a conversation, or some passage in a 
discourse, and he will find that the effort which he makes 
confers upon him in some degree the power which he needs. 
Let him be placed under the necessity of doing the same 
thing frequently, and statedly, and he soon becomes con- 
Bcious that his power rapidly increases. It matters not 
what may be the class of objects which we are called upon 
to recollect, w r e recollect w r ith ease what we find it necessary 
to recollect habitually. The civil engineer remembers, with- 
out effort, localities, the outline of a country, heights, dis- 
tances, levels, water-courses, and whatever facts are impor- 
tant in the practice of his profession. The merchant 
remembers prices in different countries, the amount of pro- 
duction in each for a great number of years, the consump- 
tion under various circumstances, and the conditions by 



256 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 

which it is affected, the rate's of exchange, and the fiuctu 
ations of markets. The lawyer remembers, in the sam* 
manner, decisions, arguments, analogies, precedents, and 
cases. Neither of these could do more than very imper 
fectly what the other does with facility. The memory > 
strengthened by exercise in one particular department of 
knowledge, is left in other respects almost in its natural 
condition. 

Nor is this all. The power of recalling our knowledge is 
materially affected by the circumstances under which the 
habit is cultivated. He who is accustomed to extemporary 
speaking will find his recollection more active when in the 
presence of an audience than in the retirement of his study. 
He has made that most valuable acquisition, the power of 
thinking upon his legs; and he will perceive truth more 
clearly, he will illustrate it more forcibly, and find all his 
knowledge more perfectly under his control, in these circum- 
stances, than in any other. Another man, who has accus- 
tomed himself solely to writing, finds his power of recollec- 
tion much more active when surrounded by his books and 
papers. The pen has become to him an almost indispensa- 
ble instrument of thought, and, without it, he is. frequently 
and strangely at a loss. Neither of these men could do the 
work of the other. Hence it is that so few men have been 
successful in both written and extempore discourse. Hence 
it is that, frequently, orations which have produced the 
deepest impression during delivery, have appeared so tame 
and lifeless when they have been committed to paper. The 
excitement of delivery, which enabled the speaker to asso- 
ciate so many images of beauty and sublimity with the sub- 
ject-matter of his discourse, passed away when the orator 
attempted to write, and little remains but the plain appeal 
to the understanding. Cicero somewhere alludes— to tho 
difficulty of attaining t<! great perfection in both wiitten and 



IMPROVEMENT OF MEMORY. 2W 

spoken discourse, and justly, if not wisely, compliments him* 
self on having been successful where most other eminent 
men had failed. 

The effect of society upon the character of our recollection 
has frequently been remarked. He who associates habitually 
with men of distinguished colloquial ability, is placed undel 
the necessity of recalling his knowledge on the instant, and 
of recalling it on any subject that the occasion may demand. 
The peculiar kind of recollection is also greatly modified by 
the company with which we associate. If our companions 
are men of humor, we find ourselves involuntarily recalling 
humorous events and droll associations. If we consort with 
men of science, the mind takes a bias in a contrary direction 
Thus a man of great colloquial excellence transforms into hia 
>wn intellectual likeness those who are much in his society. 
An illustration of this remark is found in Boswell's Life of 
■Johnson. The associates of this great converser were re- 
markable for their colloquial talent, and every individual 
was more or less tinged with the peculiarities, whether 
good or bad, of their master. Men of quite opposite ele- 
ments of character were assimilated in their modes of 
thought to him whom they all admired ; and they thug 
formed a school, of which the lineaments were recognized 
throughout the contemporary literary world. 

Instances of the power of recalling all our knowledge 
upon a given subject, are found in the lives of men who 
have been successfully employed in the conduct of affairs. 
We see them forming plans for the future, embracing a 
complicated variety of contingencies, for all of which provis- 
ion must be made in advance. The motives of men must 
be weighed, the effect of measures upon different govern- 
ments estimated ; action and reaction must be subjected to 
deliberate calculation, and all the elements which would 
advance or retard the design must be distinctly present to 
22* 



258 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 

the mind. The intellectual effort required in a great military 
commander is essentially the same. It is said that before 
the Duke of Wellington took the command of the army of 
the Peninsula, the plan of operations which he subsequently 
carried into effect had been thoroughly matured and re- 
solved upon. Every one must perceive the vast knowledge 
of facts, and the wonderful accuracy of judgment, which were 
required in order to perfect a plan which could be carried 
into effect in the midst of so many and so complicated con- 
tingencies. Dumas- also relates, that, when the Emperor 
Napoleon "decided to abandon the invasion of England, and 
attack the Emperor of Austria, it was necessary to confide 
to the chief of his staff not only the idea of the plan of the 
campaign which he meditated, but, likewise, to develop all 
the details. He dictated to M. Daru, off-hand, and without 
once stopping, those memorable instructions, that admirable 
plan of the campaign, which we saw executed precisely as 
he had fixed it, doubtless after profound meditation. In 
these instructions, the march of every day, the places at 
which the army should arrive at successive periods, and the 
place and almost the day on which the great battle should 
be fought, were minutely specified. With these previous 
instructions the actual result corresponded with astonishing 
accuracy. Every one must be amazed at the amount and 
the minuteness of the knowledge which could foresee and 
provide for every emergency that might arise in so extended 
and vast operations." 

I have pursued these illustrations beyond the limit which 
the importance of the subject would seem to demand. The 
object which I have in view must plead my apology. I 
have desired to give prominence to the fact that the memory 
is readily improved by exercise, and that it improves in the 
precise manner in which it is earnestly and habitually em- 
ployed. Every one must see that such command of bnowl« 



IMPROVEMENT OF MEMORY. 259 

edge as I have exemplified could be the result of nothing 
but assiduous and thorough ^cultivation. A lesson of practi- 
cal value to the young may be learned from these consider- 
ations. We are thus taught that we may, by diligent and 
earnest effort, become equal to the discharge of duties 
which now seem out of our power. The Duke of Welling- 
ton, in early life, gave no indications of eminent ability. 
We are liable to error in supposing that because we do not 
now possess the practical skill which a particular situation 
demands, it would therefore be presumption in us to under- 
take it. It is generally safe to believe that what other men, 
in the same circumstances, do, we, if the duty be imposed 
upon us, can do also. But, while we adopt this rule, we 
shall greatly err if we suppose that we shall be qualified for 
any situation merely by being placed in it Place confers 
no talent, and it communicates no knowledge , while, there- 
fore, we may hope to do what other men have done, it must 
be under the conditions in which other men have done it. 
Unless we take the same pains, and subject ourselves to the 
same discipline, as those who have succeeded, we shall un- 
questionably fail. Inspiration is, at least, as rare now as it 
has been in past ages ; and, if we would attain to success, 
we must form :>ur rules of conduct, not on exceptions, but 
on general laws. To subject ourselves to the discipline 
necessary to success, will not interfere with the inspirations of 
genius ; while, should it happen that we are not inspired, 
without such discipline our failure will be inevitable. 

2. It is a well-known fact that the power of recollection 
depends greatly on attention. 

The condition of mind which we denominate attention is 
that in which we direct our whole mental energies exclusively 
to one particular object. It may proceed either from with- 
out or from within; from an objective or a subjective cause. 
In the former case, the occurrence itself so entirely engrosses 



260 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 

our thoughts that, without any volition, everything else U 
excluded from the mind. Let a traveller in Europe ride 
over a field rising and falling, now in regular, and again in 
irregular slopes, with here and there a clump of trees, on 
one side a windmill, and on the other an old stone house, and 
it will leave no definite impression on his mind. He can 
look upon just such scenes anywhere, and he has seen just 
as impressive landscapes every day of his life. His thoughts 
may wander in the direction of home, and his conversation 
turn to such subjects as the humor of the moment may sug- 
gest. But let him be informed that this is the field of Wa- 
terloo, that this eminence is Mount St. Jean, that yonder is 
the farm-house of La Haye Sainte, that there is the thicket 
and villa of Hougomont, and near him the tree under which 
Wellington remained during the greater part of the action ; 
that on the slopes beyond the French were posted, and there 
in the vale is the spot where, for the first time, the Imperial 
Guard faltered, mowed down in ranks, as they advanced to 
the charge ; every other thought now vanishes from his 
mind, and it is not possible for him to think of anything 
but that terrible battle, on which the course of empire in 
Europe depended. Such an impression is engraven on tin 
memory forever. 

In these cases, as I have said, the occasion of attention is 
from without. It is arrested by objects around us, we are 
conscious of no special mental effort when it is excited, and 
we could not control it if we would. There is another and 
very different form of attention, which depends upon the 
exercise of our will. In this case, by an act of volition, we 
dismiss all thought irrelevant to the subject before us, and 
concentrate upon it all the mental energy of which we are ca- 
pable. The more perfectly we do this, the greater will be our 
power of recollection ; we shall thus acquire knowledge in 
the shortest time, and retain it with the greatest success. The 



IMPROVEMENT OF ME». OltY. 2G1 

titn who have been remarkable for great powers of memory 
ha re possessed in a remarkable degree the power of abstract 
attention. The biographer of Johnson observes that while 
he was reading the appearance of mental effort which he 
exhibited was painful even to his companions. He seemea 
wholly unconscious of the existence of anything around him; 
his countenance was flushed, the veins of his forehead became 
distended, and his whole appearance betokened the intensest 
mental concentration. A portrait, by Sir J. Reynolds, pre- 
sents him in precisely this attitude. 

/^OZ the nature of attention, and the means by which it 
may be cultivated, I have before treated ; I need not, there- 
fore, repeat what I have said on this subject. It will be suf- 
ficient to observe that, if we desire to improve the power of 
memory, it is here that we must always commence. Until 
we have learned to dismiss from our minds wandering and 
irrelevant thought, and fix our intellectual energies on the 
subject directly before us, we shall always suffer the evils 
of imperfect and feeble recollection. Attention, as we have 
before observed, obeys the commands of a determined will. It 
is thus in our own power to enlarge and strengthen our intel- 
lectual faculties. A weak memory may be rendered strong, 
and a fleeting recollection permanent, by resolutely laboring 
to improve it. The remedy, however, resides in ourselves, 
and it is the same for all. If we are willing to make the 
sacrifices necessary to insure success, observing the laws by 
which the improvement of our faculties is governed, there is 
no one of our intellectual powers which may not be improved 
far beyond what at the commencement we should have be- 
lieved possible. The men who earnestly labor to improve 
themselves generally go beyond expectation ; those who rely 
nh^their undisciplined powers almost always fall short of it. 
.but, Deyond this, we should lalor to acquire, not merely 
the power of occasional attention, but the habit of XDStanl 



262 INTELLECTUAL PIIILC 3C PHY. 

and waKeful mental earnestness. In this manner, alone, 
does our existeno3 become in the highest degree valuable, 
since every portion of it brings forth the richest and most 
abundant fruit, and no hour and no occasion is suffered U 
run to waste An oasis in the desert is, by contrast, ex- 
ceedingly beautiful and picturesque ; but how valueless i: 
appears when compared with the broad acres of a cultivated 
land, clothed as far as the eye can reach with exhaustlesa 
fertility, the hills covered with flocks, the valleys loaded 
with corn, supplying with prodigal liberality the wants of 
every living thing that finds a home upon its bosom ! Sc 
the transient efforts of genius may delight and surprise us; 
but it is the steady labor of earnest minds that works out 
those changes in public opinion, by which error is dissipated, 
truth discovered and promulgated, and a new impulse 
given to the progress of humanity in wisdom and virtue. 

It is by acquiring this habit of constant and earnest 
attention, and the power of transferring at will our whole 
energy from one subject to another, that some men are en- 
abled to perform an amount of intellectual labor which 
seems almost incredible. The duties of the Chancellor of 
Great Britain, in his judicial office the most important in 
the kingdom, as speaker and a leading member of the 
House of Lords, and frequently an active member of the 
cabinet, could be successfully discharged by no one whose 
intellect was not disciplined to incessant and intense exer- 
tion. The same remark is applicable to every man who 
stands in the front rank of any profession. The demand for 
eminent service is incessant ; and nothing can meet thig 
demand but a mind capable of putting forth its best efforts 
without cither cessation or weariness. 

3. In the third place, readiness, or facility in recalling oui 
knowledge, depends mainly upon the principles by which it 
is associated. The thought which we at this moment n«e<J 



IMPROVEMENT OF MEMORY. 263 

is brought to our recollection, because it has been connected* 
by some liw of association, with a thought now present. 

Our associations are of two kinds, those by casual, and 
those by permanent relations. The associations which we 
form from contiguity of time and place, or from mere exter- 
nal appearance, as color, size, etc., are casual; those from 
cause and effect are permanent. When we see an event oc- 
curring at a particular time and place, it by no means fol* 
lows that a similar event will recur at the same place at a 
corresponding time ; nor are similar events, by any tie 
whatever, connected with, or related to, that time and place. 
Hence, if we associate an event by these relations, there is 
nothing whatever to recall our analogous knowledge. If. on 
the other hand, we observe an event, and associate it with 
its causes and effects, we know that the same cause, under 
similar circumstances, will produce the same effect, and, 
under modified circumstances, will produce modified effects. 
Hence, this form of association connects with the event 
which we wish to remember a multitude of other events, 
any one of which, if present to the mind, may recall any 
one or all of the others. 

Inasmuch, then, as casual associations furnish no bond of 
connection by which facts are associated together, they can 
furnish little aid to the memory, and can assist us but feebly 
in the investigation of truth. If a lawyer associated cases 
merely with the court-rooms in which they happened to be 
decided, his knowledge would 1 mder but little service in 
the practice of his profession. He must remember tliem by 
their connection with the principles of equity, if he wishes 
to recall them whenever an analogous case occurs in the 
course of his pleadings. Were they associated merely by 
time and place, the most dissimilar decisions would be 
grouped together, so th-it he could rarely call to mind these 
adapted to his purpose. If he assoeiate them by the prin- 



264 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 

ciples to which they are allied, each case would recall tne 
principle, and the principle the cases which it controlled 
Knowledge, in this manner, becomes linked together. A 
single fact brings with it the recollection of a multitude of 
other facts, and these form the basis of important generaliza- 
tions, or the materials for apt and ample illustration. 

Or, again, suppose we witness a philosophical experiment. 
By casual association, we should connect it with nothing 
but the place in which it was performed; and the various 
steps of the process would be thought of only in the order 
of their succession. All that would remain to us would be 
the naked facts, that, at such a time and place, in such a 
lecture-room, the first event was followed by the second, 
and the second by the third, and so on to the end. If, on 
the contrary, the relations of cause and effect were clearly 
explained, and every change referred to its appropriate la w, 
we should know not only the succession of changes, but 
the law which governed each succession. Hence, each event 
will be associated with the others by a definite and un- 
changing connection. Ever afterwards, any event in the 
series will readily call to recollection those thus associated 
with it, and also the law on which the succession depended ; 
and any one of these laws will also recall not only these 
effects, but many others which at any time we may have 
had occasion to observe. 

From these illustrations it is evident that readiness, or 
the power of recalling our knowledge, depends greatly upon 
philosophical association In order to associate in this man- 
ner, we must form the habit of referring facts to the lawa 
on which they depend, and of tracing out laws to the facts by 
which they are exemplified. If we observe a phenomenon, 
we should, if possible, ascertain its cause. If we examine 
a specimen, we should refer it to its class. If we study an 
event, we should observe its necessary relations to the event* 



IMPROVEMENT OF MEMORY. 265 

which preceded and which have succeeded it. So, on the 
other hand, if we have comprehended an abstract principle, 
we should not be satisfied until we have transformed it into 
a concrete expression, observed the facts by which it is illus- 
trated, and the results to which it leads. If, for instance, 
we comprehend a general law in mechanics, we should work 
out problems which illustrate its mode of operation, until 
the law and the facts which depend upon it are so thoroughly 
associated together that they form one clearly defined and 
well digested conception. So, in political economy, if we 
are satisfied that a law is true, we should not rest until, if 
possible, we have exhausted the results to which it will, of 
necessity, lead ; and, on the other hand, if we observe a new 
fact in the movements of commerce, or the operations of 
finance, we should trace it back to its legitimate cause, and 
determine the law to which it owes its existence. 
/^ In this respect, our systems of education are probably 
/ defective. We determine, in the first place, that a certain 
, number of sciences must be learned in a given time. In 
\ the time allotted to each, it may be possible either to com- 
municate to the pupil some of the facts without the general 
principles, or some of the principles without the facts ; but 
not to associate the principles with the facts by the patient 
labor of tracing out their connections with each other. It 
is by this latter mode of acquisition that the mind attains 
power and alertness. He who has thus mastered a single 
science has gained far better mental discipline than by 
cursory attention to several. He who has learned one thing 
th noughly knows how other things also are to be learned ; 
and he who has proceeded as far as this has made no con- 
temptible progress m his education. 

But, though a system of education docs not accompli si i all 
that might be desired, it may yet be of great value. Wo 
may derive important advantage from a distinct knowledge 
23 



266 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 

of general principles, although we have but little powei 
of carrying them into practice. If we have gained Dsly sc 
much knowledge that we are able, in subsequent life, to rcfei 
common facts to general laws, or even to understand the 
reference when it is made by others, we have laid the foun- 
dations of philosophical association. The observations occur- 
ring in our daily occupations will, from time to time, revive 
and enlarge our knowledge. Every general law acquired 
jji youth thus becomes a nucleus, on which our additional 
attainments crystallize, and the mass increases by continued 
aggregation. Hence it is often observed that young men, 
who are well grounded in the severer studies, attain, in the 
end, to a larger intellectual growth, and succeed much bet- 
ter in professional life, than those of greater brilliancy, who 
aim at more general attainments, and devote their time tc 
what is called universal reading. 

From these remarks we learn the value of hypotheses in 
philosophy. An hypothesis is a conception of the causes 
of a phenomenon which has not yet been established by 
proof. Since it is not established, it is of no positive valid- 
ity, and can neither be received as a truth, nor made the 
basis of scientific reasoning. Yet it is not, therefore, value- 
less. It offers to our consideration a conjectural law. If 
to this law we can refer a number of phenomena which 
were before isolated, we are the better able to retain them 
in the memory. Suppose, for instance, several isolated facta 
havo been observed in geology, for which no cause has been 
discovered. A theory is proposed which, if it be allowed, 
will account for the whole, or a considerable part of them. 
This is an hypothesis. By grouping them together as the 
result of this supposed cause, an important aid is rendered 
to our recollection. Burke, I believe, remarks that an hy- 
pothesis is good for as much as it will explain. An hypoth* 
esis ; moreover, presents a definite subject for investigation, 



IMPROVEMENT OF MEMO. Y. 267 

If it bo proved false, science is the gainer by the research 
which it has occasioned ; if it be proved true, an addition is 
made to the knowledge of man. 

4. Readiness of memory is materially assisted by method- 
ical arrangement. 

Every one knows the difficulty of remembering isolated 
end disconnected items, such as a number of words selected 
at random, or a column of miscellaneous figures. This 
difficulty is greatly diminished by arranging these several 
items according to some general conception, as, for instance, 
by placing the words in alphabetical order, or grouping 
them according to the subjects to which they relate. By 
such an adjustment some principle of connection is imme- 
diately established, and, as one suggests the following, we 
easily commit them to memory, and more readily recall 
them afterwards. 

It is obvious that all sciences, from the necessity of the 
case, are susceptible of a natural arrangement. In the dis 
covery of knowledge, as I have before remarked, we pro- 
ceed from individuals to generals, and from less to more 
general, until we arrive at the most comprehensive genus 
which the present state of knowledge admits. In the com- 
munication of knowledge, this process is exactly reversed; 
we commence with the most comprehensive genus, and pro- 
ceed step by step to the less comprehensive, until we arrive 
at varieties and individuals. So, when, in any case, we 
desire to communicate truths, by patient reflection we shall 
be abls to discover the general principle on which the whole 
essentially depends When this is clearly displayed, it sug- 
gests in natural succession whatever is to follow. The order 
in which science thus arranges itself, confers important as- 
sistance on the memory. When knowledge has no relation 
to time, we proceed from more to less genera: truth. WLeq 
time enters into the development of a subject the order of 



268 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 

cause and effect is to be preferred. Thus, in latural his- 
tory, we proceed from genera to species ; in history, we follow 
the order of time, which here is also the order of cause and 
eSev*. In political economy, we treat, in succession, of pro- 
duction, exchange, distribution, and consumption ; because 
this is the order of the dependence of one class of actions 
upon another, and this is the order of changes through 
which any object passes that is modified by the industry 
of man. It is easy to perceive that our power of recalling 
our knowledge of any subject, must be greatly increased by 
the simplicity and clearness with which it was arranged, 
when it was treasured up in the memory. 

When any branch of knowledge is thus reduced to method, 
we can readily commence with its more general and element- 
ary principles, and trace them through their subsidiary 
ramifications, each genus suggesting the several species 
which it includes, until all our acquisitions on this subject 
are spread in one view before the mind. The want of such 
an arrangement is, not unfrequently, a serious embarrass- 
ment to a student. He sometimes finds important truths 
carelessly thrown together — principles and results, causes 
and effects, in a condition of hopeless dislocation ; so that to 
treasure them up as available knowledge in their present 
form is almost impossible. In this case, if the knowledge is 
worth the trouble, our best method is to think the subject 
out and rearrange it for ourselves. This will require t:me, 
but it is the only way in which knowledge so inartistic-ally 
presented can be rendered useful to the student. The great 
work of Adam Smith, which has wrought so wonderful 
changes in the policy of nations, would have achieved its 
triumph at a much earlier period if its effects had not been 
Weakened by great want of systematic arrangemer t. 

The power of clear and well-digested method is of great 



IMPROVEMENT OF MEMORY. 269 

value, not only to the student himself, hut also to those 
to whom he communicates ^knowledge. The preacher, who 
will take the trouble to acquire it, will not so often complain 
that his teachings are forgotten, or that his audience is in- 
attentive. The lawyer will thus be enabled greatly to 
abridge his proceedings, and at the same time leave a 
stronger and more durable impression on the court and the 
jury. In our addresses to our fellow-men, I hardly know 
of an acquisition of greater importance than this, or one 
that aids more powerfully our efforts to produce conviction. 
From what has been said, we perceive the incorrectness of 
the opinion, that the memory resembles a store-house, which 
may be filled to overflowing, or so filled as to render further 
acquisitions more and more difficult. If the student have 
used his memory aright, the greater his acquisitions the 
easier will subsequent acquisitions become. If he have 
formed the habit of concentrated thought, the less effort will 
be required to fix his attention. If he habitually refei his 
facts to principles, he will successively arise to higher and 
higher generalizations, and the knowledge which he acquires 
will connect itself by more and more numerous associations. 
We are never embarrassed by the amount of our knowledge, 
but only by its miscellaneous and disorderly variety. If 
reflection upon a subject presents us with nothing but a 
multitude of irrelevant and disconnected facts, without gen- 
eralization or arrangement, we may well complain of being 
overburdened with knowledge. But, when reflection yields 
the fruit of apposite principles and illustrative facts, tho 
wider the range of our acquisitions the greater will be our 
"intellectual power. It is in consequence of the formation 
of such habits that an accomplished public speaker .re- 
quently astonishes us, by discoursing with ample fulness, and 
with the clearest method, upon occasions wl ich allowed na 
opportunity for previous preparation. The attainment of 
23* 



270 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 

such a power is certainly worth all the labor which it can 
possibly demand. 

Of artificial memory. 

Besides the means for the cultivation of memory which \ 
have suggested above, others, depending upon artificial as- 
sociation, have been frequently recommended. Cicero some- 
where menticns the systems of this kind which were in use 
in his time. It may be well to indicate the principles on 
which such systems are founded. 

When we wish to remember a particular fact, we fre- 
quently associate, it with something which we cannot easily 
forget We sometimes see men desiring to recollect an 
engagement tie a knot in their handkerchief, or bind a 
string around one of their fingers. In artificial memory, a 
regular system of signs is employed for a similar purpose. 
I remember a lecturer on mnemonics, who used for this pur- 
pose a sheet or two of paper, divided into a large number 
of compartments, in each of which was engraved a figure of 
some well-known object. When a number of items, as a 
column of words, was to be remembered, the pupil was 
taught to associate each word with an object in one of these 
compartments. In this manner a large number of partic- 
ulars might be remembered for a short time. The system, 
however, which has maintained the most permanent reputa 
tion, is that of Gray, in his Memoria Technica, a work of 
which Dr. Johnson speaks somewhere with great respect. 
The nature of this system may be known from a single 
example. Suppose the object is to remember numbers. 
The vowels, diphthongs, and the most important consonants, 
are so arranged as to correspond with the nine digits and. 
cipher, in the following manner : 

a e i o u au oi ei ou j 
123456 78 90 
bdtflshicn*. 



AFTIFICIAL MEMORY. 27 J 

This table may be used thus : Suppose that I wished to remem- 
ber the fact that Julius Caesar arrived at the supreme power 
in the year 46, B. C. I observe that the letter o is above 
4, and the letter s under 6. Forty-six is then represented 
by the syllable os. I write Julios for Julius, and thus 
recall this date to my recollection. Or, again : Alexander 
founded his empire in 831, B. C. The number 331, as 
before explained, may be expressed by the letters ita. I 
then write Alexia instead of Alexander, and am thus re- 
minded of the date in question. Various other systems 
have been devised, but they all depend upon similar prin- 
ciples. 

Of the utility of this method of aiding the memory, I 
am unable to speak from experience. I have, however, ob- 
served, that, whatever may be the immediate effect of these 
systems, they are generally soon laid aside. It seems a3 
difficult to remember the system as to remember the knowl- 
edge which it would enable us to retain. Whatever be ita 
virtue, it can confer upon us no valuable mental discipline. 
It would seem better, therefore, to cultivate the memory by 
chose methods which give increased vigor to all our other 
intellectual faculties. When a subject is capable of philo- 
sophical association, it is surely better to fix it in our recol- 
lection by philosophical arrangement. When the matter to 
be remembered is names, dates, or other isolated facts, it is 
better to refer to tables and books, where such knowledge is 
to be found, than to trust to our memory, unless we aro 
endowed with special facility for this sort of acquisition. 

There is. however, one mode of rendering our knowle lije 
available, which seems to me of great value. It is a well- 
Arranged common-place book, or a book made for the pur- 
pose of recording any important items of knowledge in such 
manner as to be- easily accessible. The Ilev. Dr. Tod 1. of 
PiUsfield, Mass., has prepared a work exceedingly well 



272 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 

adapted to this purpose. It is called an " Index Rerum." 
It consists of blank leaves ruled and paged, with the letters 
of the alphabet, so that a student can readily insert a word 
designating a particular subject, and under this word record 
all the places in which he finds this subject treated. A 
student, by the use of such a book, would be able to refer tc 
all the works which he had read on any particular subject, 
by glancing at a single entry in his index. His common- 
place book would thus be an index to his whole library; 
enabling him, in the shortest time, and with the least trouble, 
to render all his past reading available for immediate use 
whenever he should require it. 

At the risk of some repetition, I shall close this part of 
the subject with a few directions for study, deduced from the 
preceding remarks : 

1. We should employ our minds as little as possible in 
those occupations which require no effort of attention. 
He who spends much of his time in reading that which he 
does not wish to remember, will find his power of acquisi- 
tion rapidly to diminish. Light reading is entitled *o its 
place, and need not be proscribed altogether. But light 
reading need not be useless reading. Facts of all kinds, to 
him who is able to make a proper use of them, are always 
of inestimable value. But much that is called light read- 
ing tends to no result whatever except present amusement • 
and nothing is more destructive of every manly energy than 
amusement pursued as a business. Nor let it be supposed 
that the vigorous employment of our faculties is destitute 
of its appropriate enjoyment. Here, as everywhere else, 
happiness is found, not when we seek for it directly, but 
when, thoughtless of ourselves, we are honestly doing our 
duty. The weariness caused by labor is relieved either by 
rest or by a change of pursuits, and thr mind returns with 
r enewed relish to its appointed labors. But what suangc 



IMPROVEMENT OF MEMORT 273 

can relieve an intellect jaded and worn down by excessive 
excitement, and vexed with the incessant craving of unsat- 
isfied desires ? 

2. We should strive to observe accurately every fact, and 
comprehend clearly every truth to which our attention may 
be directed. In this manner alone can we attain to precis- 
ion of thought and distinctness of conception. We shall 
thus learn the difference between what we know and w T hat 
w T e do not know ; an attainment of more value than might 
at first seem manifest. He whose mind habitually rejects 
crude and undigested conceptions, and vague and intangible 
theories, has made no inconsiderable progress in intellectual 
cultivation. Nor is it enough that a man can comprehend 
what an author has written w r hile the book is under his eye. 
He should attain to such a knowledge of the subject that he 
can think it out for himself in his own language, and trace 
its connections and dependencies by means of illustrations 
of his own. In this manner he will be able to understand 
what he reads, to remember what he understands, and to 
recall what he has remembered whenever the occasion ren- 
ders it necessary. 

I am aware that this method of study w r ill seem to require 
a much longer time, and restrict us to a much slower 
progress, than the course commonly pursued. A man will 
be obliged to select his books with greater care, and devote 
to his reading a more vigorous and protracted effort, than is 
generally thought necessary. He may thus lose, if he ever 
possessed it, the reputation of genius; but, what is more 
important, he may find the reality. By forming the habit 
of earnest and habitual attention, he may thus acquiro thai 
power which is the very element of genius. At first, the 
mind laboring in this manner may seem to act slowly ; but, 
as soon as effort becomes its natural condition, vigorous 
action will be as rapid as any other. Those who think 



*74 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 

intensely, if they do it habitually, require less time than 
other men to perfect their mental operations. It is thus that 
the powers of the mind are carried to their highest perfection, 
and those intellectual labors are performed which to othej 
men seem almost miraculous. 

3. Our knowledge should, as far as possible, be philosoph- 
ically arranged. F&ots should be accounted for, that is, 
referred to their appropriate laws ; and laws should be ex 
emplified until the use of them becomes perfectly familiar. 
[n this respect students are very prone to err. I have fre- 
quently seen young men, who could pass a creditable exam- 
ination in the rules of rhetoric, who could not successfully 
construct a discourse on the simplest subject, and who were 
unable to write three consecutive sentences without a blun- 
der. Every one perceives that knowledge of this kind is 
useless, and must soon be forgotten. It is this habit of com- 
bining theory with practice which, most of all, confers pro- 
fessional ability. 

The importance of arranging our knowledge methodically, 
that is, in its relations to the general principles on which it 
depends, need not again be insisted on. I will, therefore, 
only add that, in all our efforts to improve our minds, we 
should be patient with ourselves. Bad habits cannot be 
corrected except by the formation of good ones ; and to form 
habits of any kind is a work of time. Strenuous effort, if 
we give it time enough, will accomplish all that we could 
desire. We must not, however, be disconcerted at the 
imperfect success of our incipient efforts. Each one will 
accomplish something ; and every effort accomplished, though 
but imperfectly, will render less difficult that which succeeds. 
Those who have been the most successful in the end have 
frequently confessed that their first attempts were marked 
by mortifying failure. It was thus with Demosthenes ; and 
if more men were blessed with his determination to succeed, 



IMPROVEMENT OF MEMORY. 275 

the world would not so often have complained of the small 
number of great orators. 

The application of the preceding remarks to the duties of 
an instructor is apparent. 

The object of a teacher is to communicate knowledge, and 
go to communicate it as to develop and strengthen the 
powers of the mind. Hence, in order to succeed, he must 
observe the laws to which the mind is subjected. The mind 
of the pupil is similar to the mind of the teacher, age only 
excepted. The course which has proved most successful with 
the one, will prove the most successful with the other. If 
we bear this in mind, we shall perceive the importance of 
the following suggestions : 

1. I have remarked that our power of recollection depends 
greatly upon the clearness of our conceptions. Now, the 
ability of young persons to comprehend complicated rela- 
tions is. of course, much less than of adults. It is, there- 
fore, the duty of the instructor to analyze what is complex 
and simplify what is intricate, or else so to direct the mind 
of the pupil that he can do it for himself. In this manner 
every kind of knowledge adapted to the age of the pupil 
may be brought within his intellectual grasp. The in- 
structor should not merely hold forth to the pupil what is 
laid down in the books, but think it out for himself, observe 
its elements, and separate them from each other, so that he 
may place them in the clearest light before the conception 
of the pupil. In these respects instructors frequently fail. 
Sometimes they have no clear idea of a subject themselves, 
and, of course, can convey none to others. They merely 
inculcate by rote what they have learned by rote themselves. 
Sometimes an instructor, who understands a subject himself, 
forgets the labor by which his knowledge was acquired, an J 
becomes unconscious of the difference between himself and 
his pupil. What is very simple to him now, appears to him, 



276 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 

of course, simple to every one. What became familiar to 
him only by seyere and protracted effort, seems capable of 
being learned by his pupil in a shorter time than is actually 
possible. In these respects it becomes an instructor to be on 
his guard. He should consider, not what he can do now, but 
what he could have done when under the circumstances of 
his pupils. He should, therefore, be careful to assure him- 
self that what he teaches is understood. He who will bear 
these things in mind will not often have to complain of the 
stupidity of his pupils. When an instructor finds all his 
pupils blockheads, the indication is certainly ambiguous ; 
there is a blockhead somewhere, but whether it be either 
the teacher or the pupil becomes a proper subject of 
inquiry. 

2. What has been rendered simple may be easily illus- 
trated. Skill in illustration, therefore, is of great impor- 
tance to a teacher. He perhaps presents to a pupil a new 
idea which is not readily comprehended. The conception 
of the one is not grasped by the other ; or, if it is, the pupil 
does not certainly know that the idea in his mind is that 
which the teacher means to communicate. The teacher 
must, therefore, call up some analogous idea with which the 
pupil is familiar, so that, from ground common to both, he 
may pass by easy gradation to that which is new and 
uncomprehended. Things dissimilar in themselves fre- 
quently stand to each other in similar relations, thus 
affording wide range for analogies. In this manner the 
known is made to teach the unknown. Nor is this all. 
The illustration associates a new with a familiar idea. 
An interesting and apposite image is presented, and thug 
whatever is learned is more easily remembered. An illus- 
tration addressed to the eye is always the most successful. 
Hence, maps, diagrams, experiments, are among the most 
indispensable aids of an instructor. 



IMPROVEMENT OF MEMORY. 277 

3. It is scarcely necessary to add that the pi ogress 
of the pupil will be greatly accelerated by reducing his 
knowledge, as far as possible, to practice. From the neces- 
sity of the case, it is evident that much of the pupil's time 
must be occupied in learning rules. If, however, the teach- 
ing is confined to these alone, it becomes intolerably irksome. 
The mind struggles against it, and is willing quickly to forget 
what is associated with nothing but pain. These difficulties, 
however, may in a great degree be removed, by teaching the 
pupil, as soon as he has learned a rule, to put it into prac- 
tice. He then discovers that the knowledge of rules is a 
means of power, for it enables him to do what he could not 
do before, and he becomes conscious of progress and 
increased ability. Every step in advance brings with it 
an immediate reward, and he proceeds to the next step with 
new consciousness of power, and more earnest desire nr 
other acquisitions. It was formerly the practice to carry a 
boy through the Latin grammar before he began to trans- 
late a word ; and months were consumed in this dry and 
repulsive labor. It would be no wonder if, under such a 
discipline, he learned to abominate the grammar, the lan- 
guage, and the instructor, together. But if, as soon as he 
has learned a single rule, or mastered a single inflexion, ho 
is taught to use it in the construction of easy phrases, and 
when, with the knowledge thus gained, he proceeds to the 
next rule, and finds the increased power derived from adding 
these knowledges together, further progress becomes desira- 
ble in itself, and learning is no longer a drudgery. While it 
would be absurd. to say that, in all respects, our modes of 
teaching are preferable to those of oui fathers, it is delight- 
ful to a benevolent mind to contemplate the improvements 
which have been introduced in the modes of instructing the 
young. The labor required is better adapted to the faculties 
of the learner, though here, it must be confessed, we yet 
24 



278 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 

need improvement. Study ministers more to t^e growth di 
the mind, instead of being a barren exercise of memory ; ana 
a vast amount of misery has been lifted off from the human 
race — certainly no trifling consideration. 

REFERENCES. 

Relation of memory to philosophical genius — Stewart, voL L, chap b» 
jection 8. 

Improvement of memory — Stewart, vol. i., chap. 6, section 3. 

Effect of practice in formation of habits — Stewart, vol. L, chap. 2. 

Theory and practice — Stewart, vol. i., chap. 4, section 7. 

Attention connected with memory — Locke, Book 2, chap. 10, section 3 j 
Abercrombie, Part 3, section 1. 

Connected knowledge easily retained — Stewart, vol. L, chap. 6, section 
8 ; sections 1, 2, 4 ; Abercrombie, Part 3, section 1. 

Memory aided by method — Stewart, vol. i., chap. 6, section 3 ; Aber 
crombie, Part 3, section 1. 

Nature and use of hypothesis — Locke, Book 4, chap. 12, sections 12, 
13 ; Abercrombie, Part 3, section 4 ; Stewart, vol. i., chap. 6, section 7. 

Artificial memory — Stewart, vol. i., chap. 6, section 6. 

Rules for study — Stewart, vol. i., chap. 6, section 5. 

Effects of writing on memory — Stewart, vol. i., chap 6, section 5. 

Visible objects easily renembered — Stewart, vol. L, (hap. d t sejtioa 2 

Memoiy a storehouse — Reid, Essay 8, chap. 7. 



CHAPTER VI 

REASONING. 



SECTION I. — THE NATURE AND OBJECT OF REASONING, 
AND THE MANNER IN WHICH IT PROCEEDS. 

We now come to the consideration of that series of men- 
tal acts denominated reasoning. Before, however, we enter 
upon this branch of our subject, it may be useful to review 
again, very briefly, the ground which we have gone over, 
that we may distinctly perceive the point from which we 
proceed, and learn the relation which this form of mental 
action holds to the other acts of the mind. 

By our perceptive powers, we become acquainted with tho 
qualities of external objects, and, in general, with the facta 
in the external world. By our consciousness, we learn the 
facts existing in the world within us. By original sugges- 
tion, various intuitive truths and relations become objects 
of cognition. By abstraction, conceptions of individuals 
assume the form of general ideas ; and by memory, all this 
knowledge is retained and recalled to our consciousness at 
the command of the will. 

Were we endowed with no other powers than these, we 
might enjoy the pleasures of knowledge. Whatever we had 
observed or experienced, and whatever had been observed 
and experienced by others, might be retained, generalized 
and combined, and thus our acquisitions might be both ex- 



280 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 

tensive and valuable. But, with no other faculties, we could 
only know what we or other men had actually observed or 
experienced. We could never make use of this knowledge to 
penetrate into the unknown. In a word, we could observe, 
and feel, and generalize, and classify, and remember, but 
we could not reason. 

But such is not the condition of the human mind. As 
Boon as we acquire any knowledge whatever, we are prompted 
to use it for the purpose of acquiring other knowledge. We 
are continually saying to ourselves, if this be thus, then 
this other must be so ; or this must be so, because this and 
that are so. If this be so, what must of necessity follow ? 
This is the language of human beings, young and old, sav- 
age and civilized, learned and ignorant. It is the impulse 
of our common nature, and one of the endowments with 
which we have been blessed by a merciful Creator. He has 
enabled us to cognize relations existing between certain 
truths, from which emanate other truths different from the 
preceding, but which, without a knowledge of them, could 
never have been discovered. 

The results of the exercise of this faculty have been most 
astonishing. Unlike our other endowments, every one of 
its acts provides a wider field for its future employment, and 
thus its range is absolutely illimitable. The perception of 
one color gives me no additional power to perceive anothei 
color. A fact remembered furnishes only accidentally a 
basis or an aid to wider recollection. But every truth dis- 
covered by the reasoning power, and, in fact, every truth, 
however acquired, becomes, by use of this power, the means 
for proceeding to further discovery. Through the element- 
ary cognitions in geometry, our reason at first discovers 
certain truths concerning lines, angles and triangles. 
Using these increased means of knowledge, it proceeds to dis- 
cover truths concerning circles and squares and, using 



REASONING. 281 

these again, it discovers those concerning solids, spheres and 
spherical triangles; and, using these again, it has been able 
to reveal to us the magnitude, distances and motions, of the 
heavenly bodies, and thus unfold the wonders of modern 
astronomy. The knowledge which we thus obtain is ori- 
ginal knowledge ; that is, it is given us specially by thia 
faculty, and could be given us by no other. How could wo 
ever learn the distance or magnitude or motion of the plan- 
ets, either by perception, or consciousness, or original sug- 
gestion, or abstraction, or memory? The same remark is 
true respecting the other sciences. Every science which 
presents to us knowledge which could not be attained by the 
powers above mentioned, must rely for its discoveries wholly 
on reasoning. 

We see, then, the nature of this faculty. It cognizes 
nothing directly and immediately. It neither perceives the 
facts of the outward nor is conscious of the facts of the 
inward world ; it furnishes no original suggestions, and 
neither abstracts nor remembers ; but it receives these data 
as they are delivered to it by these preceding faculties, and, 
by a process of its own, uses them to discover new truths, 
to which none of them could ever have attained. The man- 
ner in which this is done, we shall attempt to explain. 

Reasoning consists in a series of mental acts, by which 
we show such a relation to exist between the known and the 
unknown, that if the former be true, the latter must also be 
equally true. Thus, in geometry, the known with which 
we commence is the definitions and axioms. Our first dem- 
onstration shows such relations to exist between them and 
the first proposition, that if those be true this must be true 
also. This first proposition is thus added to the known, 
and becomes as firm a ground from which to reason as the 
definitions and axioms from which Ave at fust proceeded. In 
our next step we again show, by jur reasoning powers, that 
24* 



282 TNTELLLCTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 

if this increased known be true, the second proposition mnat 
be true also. We then add our second proposition to the 
known, and with this increased material of knowledge pro- 
ceed to the third proposition t and so on continually. In 
each act of reasoning, we observe first the known, reaching 
to a definite limit, beyond which all is uncertainty. Wo 
observe, secondly, a proposition in the unknown which may 
be true or may be false, of which nothing can with certainty 
be affirmed, separated from the known by a chasm, so to 
speak, of thus far impassable ignorance. The reasoning 
power projects a bridge across this chasm, uniting them 
indissolubly together, transforming the unknown into tht 
known, adding a new domain to science, and enlarging by 
every such act tke area of human knowledge. 

If such be the nature of the mental process which we 
denominate reasoning, it suggests to us three distinct topics 
for consideration : 

First, the nature of the truths from which we proceed. 

Secondly, the validity of the results at which we arrive. 

Thirdly, the nature of the process by which we pass 
from the one to the other. 

To the consideration of these subjects the remainder of 
this section will be devoted. 

I. The nature of the truths from which we pro- 
ceed. 

I have already said that, in reasoning, we design to show 
that if certain things are true, certain other things, whose 
truth is now unknown, must be true also. We then must, 
of necessity, proceed from the true to the doubtful, from the 
known to the unknown. The premises are always, at the 
commencement, hctt.tr known than the conclusion at which wo 
propose to arrive. From this it is evident that we can never 
reason unless from what is either known or conceded ; and, 
further, that we can never prove any proposition unless w« 



FIRST TRUTHS. 283 

can find some other proposition better known by which U 
prove it. If any proposition is to be proved, all other pos- 
sible propositions must stand to it in one of three relations, 
either less-known, equally known, or better known. To 
attempt to prove what we know by what we do not know, 
or to prove what we knoxo by what we do not know as well, 
is absurd. Inasmuch a3 proof brings the conclusion to pre- 
cisely the level of the premises, a process of this kind would 
liminish instead of increasing the certainty of our conclu- 
iion. That an error of this kind cannot be committed, 1 
would not, however, assert. We not unfrequently hear 
men attempt to prove, w r hat every one at the beginning al- 
lows, but which, at the conclusion of the argument, every 
one is disposed to doubt. Such must always be the result 
when we attempt to prove self-evident truths. Secondly ; to 
attempt to prove either what we know or what we do not 
know, by what we only know equally well, is nugatory. 
We of course know no better at the end than at ",be begin- 
ning of our argument, and all our labor is by necessity 
thrown away. We could not, by a life's labor in this man- 
ner, advance a single step in knowledge. Hen ;e we can 
never prove any proposition, unless we can find some prop- 
ositions better known than that which we desire to prove. 
Hence it follows, that, when we find a proposition so evident 
that no proposition more evident can be discovered, the 
truth of such a proposition cannot be established by the 
reasoning faculty. If it be true, its truth must be deter- 
mined by some other power of the mind. Hence, all rea- 
soning must commence from truths not made known by the 
reason, that is, which the intellection perceives to be true 
previous to all reasoning, and from whic.\ all the deductions 
of reason proceed. Let us consider the J^tire of some of 
these elementary beliefs, which lie at wh\> »'o?.i>r\tbn of all 



284 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 

Were nothing more required than that a man should v,on<» 
vince himself of the truth of any proposition, nothing more 
would be necessary than that he himself was satisfied that 
his premises were true. I do not, of course, say that he 
would thus, of necessity, arrive at truth, but he would be 
able to convince himself of the truth of the proposition in 
question. But, if we reason for the purpose of convincing 
another man, it is obvious that he also must admit with us 
the truth of our premises, or the propositions from which we 
proceed. Unless the two can agree in the premises, argue 
as long as they may, they can make no progress towards a 
conclusion. The argument which convinces the one has no 
eifect on the other, since he denies the premises on which it 
is founded. No argument, then, can have any power over 
the mind of another, unless both equally admit the truth of 
the premises on which the conclusion rests. But what is 
'.rue of any two men, is true of all men collectively. We 
'an never convince the human mind of the truth of our 
conclusions, unless there be some truths from which we 
proceed, which all men equally with ourselves admit prior 
to all argument. If such truths did not exist, all reasoning 
addressed to the human race would be nugatory and use- 
less. When men reason at great length, without coming to 
a conclusion, the cause of their difficulty generally is, that 
they have no principles in common. Hence, when we find 
ourselves in this condition, the proper course to be pursued 
is to refer back to the premises from which we proceed, and 
deter !iiine whether they be the same. When men agree in 
premises, and reason logically from them, it cannot be long 
before some conclusion is reached. 

But it is evident that in all matters of science, and, in 
fact, in all our reasonings (those only excepted which are 
technically termed ad hominem), we address ourselves not to 
one man, or one class of men, but to the whole human race. 



FIRST TRUTHS. 265 

We proceed upon the belief that what convinces one man, 
of fair understanding and in a normal condition of the intel- 
lect, will convince all men under the same circumstances 
that is, that there are common truths which all men admit, 
and that, reasoning from them, they must all arrive at the 
game result as soon as the argument is fairly presented. 
And this anticipation is justified by universal experience. 
The conclusions of mathematics, astronomy, mechanics, of 
geol )gy, chemistry, magnetism, of political economy, and 
social philosophy, from the time of their first promulgation, 
have established themselves gradually in the mind of man, 
until, by the force of their own evidence, they are admitted 
as acknowledged truths. Every man who has been con- 
vinced of the truth of the reasoning on which their con- 
clusions depend, feels assured that every other man who 
contemplates them without prejudice will be convinced also. 
Hence the universal confidence that is felt in the maxim of 
Bacon, " Magna est Veritas et prevalebit" Such unani- 
mous consent to conclusions could not be predicted, and 
could not exist, unless there were principles lying at the 
foundation of the reasonings, which all men admit, and from 
which conclusions follow, by irresistible sequence, which all 
men must allow. Such truths, made known to all men by 
the original constitution of the human understanding, must 
lie at the foundation of 'all science, and of all knowledge 
established by reasoning. They have teen called, by Buffier 
and Dr. Reid, first truths, and they are said by these phi- 
losophers to emanate from the common sense of mankind. 

It may reasonably be demanded whether there is any 
mode by which we may determine whether or not any 
proposition is a first truth. Is there any test by which 
they maybe practically distinguished from mere propositions 
that are inferred from them ] To this I answer, 

First, thai/ arc im tmprehensibl?. 



£86 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 

Secondly, they are simple. 

Thirdly, they are necessaiy and unioersal. 

Fourthly, they are so evident that nothing more evi* 
dent can be discovered by which to prove them. 

This subject lias, however, been already considered undei 
the head of the Reality of our Knowledge, pages 95 — 97, 
to which pages the reader is referred. 

The axioms of geometry are acknowledged to be the foun- 
dation truths of that science ; but other self-evident truths 
lie equally at the foundation of all other knowledge estab- 
lished by reasoning. For instance : that I exist ; that an 
external universe exists; that the testimony of my percep- 
tive and my reasoning powers is to be received ; that a 
change presupposes a cause ; that the course of nature is 
uniform, or that the same causes under the same conditions 
will produce the same effects ; that rational beings act from 
motives, and that a change of action must proceed from a 
change of motives, and a multitude of others, may be placed 
in the number of first truths. 

Between the truths that are acknowledged by all as self- 
evident, as I have before remarked, a distinction may be 
observed. The first truths of geometry, for instance, are 
perceived to be such unconditionally. Thus, we could not 
conceive of any circumstances in which the whole of any- 
thing would not be greater than its part, the reverse of this 
truth being manifestly unthinkable. This, as we perceive, 
must be true semper et ubique. But that I exist, that an 
external world exists, is only a conditional first truth. 
Neither I nor the external. world have always existed, and 
it is not impossible to suppose them to cease to exist. It is 
not, however, possible to conceive them not to exist, things 
being as they are ; that is, I being conscious of the acta 
of thinking, perceiving, etc. Thus also, things being aa 
they are, it is impossible to conceive of an intelligent being 



FIRST TRUTHS. 287 

as acting without motive, but it is not impossible to supposa 
beings constituted so differently from us as to act in this 
manner, or to suppose that no intelligent beings had ever 
been created. Bat, things being- as they are, the opposite 
of these truths is utterly inconceivable. 

On these first truths all our reasonings ultimately depend. 
They are rarely stated in language, because every man 
instinctively takes them for granted, and he knows that ail 
other men do the same. It would, however, be a very valu- 
able service to science, if the first truths of all knowledge 
in general, and of the separate sciences in particular, could 
be plainly stated and accurately classified. In this manner 
a large amount of useless discussion would be prevented, 
and truth arrived at with much greater facility. Dr. Reid, 
in the sixth chapter of his sixth Essay on the intellectual 
powers, has stated several of the necessary truths in gram- 
mar, logic, mathematics, in taste, in morals and meta- 
physics, together w r ith many contingent truths which are 
admitted in all our efforts after knowledge. The subject, 
however, demands a more extended and minute examination. 
Whenever it shall have been done, the labor of intellectual 
research will be greatly diminished, and its results more 
easily verified. 

2. I have stated above that the end to be accomplished 
by the reasoning faculty is to render the conclusion at which 
we arrive, of precisely the same validity as the premises, 
From this it is evident that whatever the reasoning faculty 
has logically deduced from first truths is just as valid mat- 
ter from which to proceed as the first truths themselves. 
Thus, in geometry, from the axioms and definitions we prove 
a proposition ; that proposition, when logically proved, is as 
certainly true as the axioms from which wo at first pro- 
ceeded. The proposition that the angles at the base of an 
isosce7 3S triangle are cu^ual, is just as valid a premise, in a 



288 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 

geometrical demonstration, as the truth that things equal ta 
the same are equal to one another. And, still further, what- 
ever is by logical process proved from this proposition is 
iust as valid matter as the proposition itself. And this will 
be the case to any extent whatever. 

The only abatement to be made to this statement is the 
uncertainly arising from the imperfection of our faculties. 
We may j from this imperfection, reason illogieally without 
perceiving it. If there be this liability, the greater the 
number of arguments, the greater the probability that in 
some one there will be error. And this liability increases 
with the complication of the relations which we are called 
to consider. This liability is reduced to the smallest prac- 
tical value when the various steps of an argument have 
been examined by men skilled in the discovery of truth, 
and their validity has been allowed by all succeeding phi- 
losophers. 

3. Besides these truths given us in the original constitu- 
tion of our intellect, and the truths following from them 
by logical deduction, other truths are valid matter in our 
reasonings. Such are the acknowledged laws of nature, 
established by incontestable observation. Thus, it has been 
ascertained that the sensation of hearing, under normal con- 
ditions, is caused by the vibration of the air; the perception 
of external objects, by the formation of an image on the 
retina; that water boils at 212° and freezes at 82° Fahren- 
heit, under ordinary conditions of barometrical pressure; 
that the atmosphere is a mixture of oxygen and nitrogen 
gases. and water a compound of oxygen and hydrogen, both 
always in definite proportions; that atmospheric air is neces- 
sary to animal life. These, and all other laws and general 
facts, which at any time have been discovered by experiment 
or observation, whether in matter or mind, are valid matter 
from which to proceed in our reasonings. We thus see the 



FIRST TRUTHS. 289 

connection between those powers of the mind which we have 
previously considered and the reasoning faculty. The former 
observe and retain and generalize, and thus change individ- 
ual facts into general laws. These become the premises 
from which, by our reasoning power, conclusions are drawn ; 
and thus knowledge is increased, and the dominion of man 
over nature extended. 

4. I have thus far treated of premises, or propositions 
fiom which we proceed in reasoning, of which the truth i3 
incontestable. Wherever such propositions can be discovered 
we always are bound to use them, for thus alone can we 
arrive at pure truth, and enlarge our positive knowledge. 
Frequently, however, in our practical conduct, such propo- 
sitions cannot be discovered, and we are obliged to form 
our reasonings on mere probability. In this case we can 
arrive at nothing higher than probability, but this proba- 
bility is in many cases far preferable to ignorance, and may 
furnish a valuable guide for our conduct. Thus, we say, 
concerning a coming event, men under certain circumstances 
generally act thus or so. A, is under these circumstances, 
therefore he will probably act thus or so. Under such or 
such conditions of the atmosphere it generally rains ; such 
are the conditions this morning, therefore it will probably 
rain to-day. Or, again : if there be a war in Europe, there 
will be a demand for American grain ; there will probably 
be a war in Europe, therefore probably there will be such 
a demand. It is obvious that much of our reasoning con- 
cerning future events is of this character. It does not 
furnish us with certain knowledge, but yet with knowledge 
which may be of great value in the practical business of 
life, and the management of affairs. 

II. Such are some of the truths from which we proceed 
in the use of our reasoning powers. I proceed to inquire, 
secondly, what is the state of mind at which we arrive 
25 



290 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 

provided the reasoning faculty has been employed in cuedi- 
once to the laws to which it has been subjected. 

The states of mind of which we may be conscious in regard 
to any proposition, are, I think, the following : 

1. We may be in perfect ignorance concerning it, neither 
believing nor disbelieving it in the slightest degree. Thus, 
viere it affirmed that the sun is inhabited, I must say, I 
know nothing about it. I have no facts from which to 
reason, and am therefore in absolute ignorance ; I have not 
even an opinion either in favor of, or in opposition to, the 
proposition. It is to me precisely the same as if the affirm- 
ation had not been made. 

2. I may know that a proposition is true. Here I 
express my state of mind by saying that I believe it, or I 
know it. Thus, I know that the exterior angle of a triangle 
is equal to the two interior and opposite angles. I believe 
that there are such cities as London, Paris, and Wash- 
ington. 

3. I may know a proposition to be false. Here my state 
of mind is expressed by the words, I disbelieve it. Thus, if 
the proposition were presented to me, that the angles at the 
base of an isosceles triangle are unequal, I know it to be 
false, and I say I disbelieve it. 

4. Without being able to arrive at either belief or disbe- 
lief, I am capable of forming an opinion concerning the 
truth or falsehood of a proposition. I weigh the several con- 
siderations presented, and I find my mind inclined in one 
direction or the other ; though I am fully aware that this 
inclination may be reversed by subsequent and more accu- 
rate knowledge. Thus, in the present state of knowledge, 
I am unable either to believe or disbelieve that the planeta- 
are inhabited, yet 1 may have an opinion on tie subject in- 
clining either to the ont> view or the other. I therefore 



PROPOSITIONS. 291 

trait for further information, prepared to change my opinion 
with the progress of knowledge. 

The object of reasoning is to advance our certainty, and 
to move the mind onward from the extreme of ignorance on 
the one hand, to the opposite extreme of belief on the other. 
Hence it may change our mental state from ignorance to 
opinion, from opinion to more confident opinion, or from 
either of these to certainty or confident belief. Its move- 
ment is all in one direction, from a lower to a higher degree 
of certainty. 

From what has been said, it is evident that, when our 
premises are indubitable, we arrive, by reasoning, at absolute 
belief or indubitable truth. When our premises are merely 
matters of opinion we arrive only at opinion. In every 
case we raise the conclusion to precisely the same degree of 
certainty as the premises from which we proceed ; we make 
what was before unknown, or less known, exactly equal to 
what was before more known. Our conclusion can never 
be more certain than our premises, but if our process be 
logical, it can never be less certain. 

III. We now come, in the third place, to inquire what ig 
the process by which this relation between the known and 
the unknown is rendered apparent, so that we are enabled 
to raise the one to the certainty of the other. 

We do this by syllogism. A syllogism is a series of 
judgments or propositions, the last of which affirms the con- 
clusion at which we have arrived. Before considering syllo- 
gisms, it will be proper to consider the nature of judgments, 
or the propositions of which they are composed. 

Judgment is an act of the mind in which we affirm one 
thing of another ; that is, we affirm a predicate of a subject, 
or judge that a particular individual or species is included 
IK a particular genus or class. Thus, I judge snow to be 
white, grass to be green, avarice to be conteinptiMe ; that 



292 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 

is, I judge these particular individuals to be comprenended 
within the class which I predicate of them. 

Our judgment may be either clear and distinct, or obscure 
and confused. 

A judgment is formed from two conceptions, and it 
affirms that one of these may be predicated of the other. 
Now, if we have a complete comprehension of both these 
conceptions, our judgment must be clear and distinct. On 
the other hand, if my knowledge of the conceptions involved 
be imperfect, vague, and obscure, my judgment must be of 
a similar character. Thus, when the proposition is an- 
nounced that the three angles of a triangle are equal to two 
right angles, I comprehend the terms employed both in the 
subject and predicate, and my judgment is definite and un- 
ambiguous. If it be said that the rings of Saturn are chaos, 
I find myself to have a very incomplete idea of the rings of 
Saturn, and a very indistinct idea of chaos. Hence, I am 
unable to form anything more than a very indistinct idea of 
the proposition. 

It is hardly necessary to remark that judgment enters aa 
an element into almost all our mental acts. We think in 
judgments ; that is, we are always affirming one thing of 
another, and we do not consider anything else to be thinking. 
To conceive of things without forming judgments, is to make 
no progress. We can only be said to think when we form 
a judgment, respecting two conceptions, in which one ia 
affirmed of the other. 

The expression of a judgment in words, is called a propo- 
sition. A proposition, therefore, must consist of a subject, 
or that of which we affirm, a predicate, or that which we 
affirm of it, and a copula, or that which affirms the relation 
existing between them. Thus, if I say, man is a vertebrate, 
here man is the subject, vertebrate is the predicate, and is 
is the copula, or that which affirms the one of the other. 



PROPOSITIONS. 293 

The subject is that of which we discourse, the predicate ia 
the class to which we affirm that it belongs, or under which 
it is comprehended, and the copula is that which affirms the 
existence of this relation. 

When we thus affirm a predicate of a subject, we affirm that 
all the qualities of the predicate are possessed by the subject. 
When I say, man is a vertebrate, I affirm that all which is com- 
prehended by the predicate vertebrate is possessed by man. 

In every proposition it is obvious there must be two 
conceptions. Of these one must be a general idea, or one 
designating a class. To affirm of two individuals is either 
nugatory or false. To say John is John is nugatory, for 
the proposition does not advance our knowledge. To say 
John is Peter is false, for it affirms something to be different 
from what it is. 

The subject may be either an individual or a species ; the 
predicate must be a genus ; that is, it must designate a larger 
class than the subject. In a proposition, we therefore affirm 
that a particular individual is included within a particular 
class. Hence, every proposition must be either true or false. 
The subject is either included within the class designated by 
the predicate, or it is not. It cannot be neither within noi 
without it. Thus, if I say horse is a vertebrate, it is eithei 
true or false / for horse is either included within this class, 
or it is not. 

We may now proceed to the subject of syllogism. 

A syllogism, in the language of Aristotle, is a speech in 
which certain things (the premises) being supposed, some- 
thing different from what is supposed (the conclusion) 
follows of necessity, and this solely in virtue of he suppo- 
sitions themselves. 

The principle on which a syllogism depends is the follow- 
ing : Whatever is affirmed or denied of a class is affirmed 
or denied of every individual under that class. Thus, when 
25* 



294 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 

I say snow is white, I mean that snow is compn Uended un« 
der the class white, and I affirm this also of all snow what- 
ever. When I say snow is not black, I exclude snow from 
the class black, and I exclude all snow from this class ; that 
is, I deny black of snow. 

It will be seen, from what has been said, that logic, or the 
science of syllogisms, is formal ; that is, it must proceed 
from premises conceded. It of itself takes no cognizance 
of either their truth or falsehood. Supposing them to 
be true, it governs the forms of propositions, and their rela- 
tions to each other, and merely assures us that the conclu- 
sion which we infer in obedience to its rules is as true as our 
premises. It renders us no other aid than this, but this it 
renders most effectually. 

It has sometimes been supposed that syllogism was i 
mode of reasoning, and a mode of reasoning employed by 
philosophers, while other men reasoned in some other and 
simpler manner. It has even been said, that, much as philos- 
ophers talk about syllogism, when they come to reason, 
they neglect it all, and reason like common men. To this 
it may be replied, that syllogism is not a mode, it is the 
mode of reasoning. It is the peculiar process of the reason- 
ing faculty. The reasoning power forms syllogisms just a3 
the imagination forms pictures, each being the purpose for 
which these different powers were respectively designed 
Philosophers and other men must, therefore, if they reason 
at all, reason in the same way, for they have no other 
nethod by which to proceed. I do not, of course, pretend 
that either of them draws out every argument in the form 
of a syllogism. One or both of the premises are frequently 
BO well known as to be taken for granted, and we need only 
Btate the conclusion which must follow from what is con- 
ceded by all. But, in this case, our reasoning, though ever 
Bo inush abridged, may always be reduced to the form of a 



SYLLOGISM. 295 

lyllogiain, and we always so reduce it, if we desire to test 
its truth and examine it with accuracy. 

In forming a syllogism in the first proposition we affirm 
thit a species is included under a genus. By the second 
proposition we affirm that an individual or a sub-species is 
included under this species. In the third proposition, or the 
conclusion, we affirm. the proposition which, of necessity, 
follows from the conjunction of the two first propositions or 
premises. 

Thus, for example, I affirm, 

1. All tyrants are detestable. 

2. Caesar was a tyrant. 

3. Caesar was detestable. 

Here, by the first proposition, I affirm that the species 
tyrant is included under the genus detestable ; by the 
second proposition, I affirm that the individual Caesar was 
included under the species tyrant ; and, by the third propo- 
sition, I affirm the conclusion which of necessity follows, 
namely, that Caesar is included under the class detestable. 

In order to illustrate this subject, let us suppose that the 
proposition to be proved is, Caesar was detestable. The 
predicate is called the major term, the subject the minor 
term. When we make this assertion, it is denied by an op- 
ponent ; that is, he asserts, on the contrary, that this predi- 
cate, detestable, cannot be affirmed of the subject, Caesar. 
In what manner is it given us to proceed? Assertion is 
confronted by assertion equally decided. In what manner 
shall we arrive at the truth, so as to convince an opponent, 
or mankind in general, of the validity of our proposition ? 

We do this by seeking for what is called a middle term, 
or for some class which is included in the class detestable, 
and which also includes the subject Caesar. Suppose I 
choose the term dictator, and say, 

1. All dictators are detestable. 



296 INTELLECIUAL PHILOSOPHY 

2. Caesar was a dictator. 

S. Caesar was detestable. 

My opponent refers to Fabius, and other dictators, who 
were not detestable. I am, therefore, obliged to change 
the first premise, and say, some dictators are detestable. But, 
as all dictators are not included in the class detestable, the 
conclusion will not by necessity follow, and this argument 
must be relinquished. 

I seek for another middle term, and select that mentioned 
above, the term tyrant. I show by facts that Caesar was 
comprehended under this class. I then proceed as before, 
and the conclusion follows by necessity, in virtue of the 
suppositions themselves. 

The above is an affirmative syllogism. In a negative 
syllogism the process is modified as follows : We first 
affirm that a certain species is wholly excluded from a par- 
ticular genus. In the second place, we affirm that the in- 
dividual or sub-species is included in this excluded species. 
The conclusion follows, by necessity, that the individual or 
species is excluded from the first mentioned genus. 

For example, suppose it were to be proved that Caesar 
was not detestable. This is denied, and we must seek for a 
middle term which shall include Caesar, and be excluded 
from the class detestable. I choose the +erm dictator, and 
then say, 

1. No dictator is detestable. 

2. Caesar was a dictator ; therefor e ; 

3. Caesar was not detestable. 

Here, however, I am met by the fact that some dictators 
were detestable, and for this reason my argument fails, 
since some dictators are not excluded from this class. 

I must, therefore, select another middle term. I say 
therefore 

1. Nc brave and generous man is detestable. 



SYLLOGISM. 29 1 

2. Caesar was a brave and generous man. 

8. Csesar was not detestable. 

If these premises are granted, the conclusion, as before, 
follows by necessity. If any of our premises is denied, we 
are obliged to form a syllogism in the same manner, and 
prove our premise before we can proceed. But, having es- 
tablished the premises, the conclusion cannot be evaded. 

The above instances will illustrate the general nature of 
syllogisms. Sophisms are arguments purporting to be syl- 
logisms, in which the essential laws of syllogism are vio- 
lated. Thus, 

1. All quadrupeds are animals. 

2. Birds are animals ; therefore, 

3. Birds are quadrupeds. 

Here it is seen at once that the class quadrupeds, which 
is included in animals, does not include birds. Therefore, 
nothing is concluded. So again, 

1. Black is a color. 

2. White is a color ; therefore, 

3. White is black. 

Here, as before, both white and black are included in the 
Bame genus, but there is no species included in the class 
color, which also includes the subject of the conclusion. 

I have thought that this subject might be illustrated by a 
few simple diagrams. I^therefore, add them in this place, 
for the sake of representing the doctrine of syllogism to the 
eye. To those learned in logic, they will, I know, be 
deemed superfluous ; but, as this work is designed for those 
who are entering upon this study, they may not be wholly 
without advantage. 

The affirmative syllogism may be represented by the fol- 
lowing diagram. For instance, 

All vertebrates are animals. 

Horse is a vertebrate ; therefore, 



298 INTELLECTUAI PHILOSOPHY. 

Horse is an animal. 









•i 






e 






'£ 

< 


2 
g 
■8 






<V 

> 


i 



That is, vertebrate is included in animal, horse is included 
in vertebrate ; therefore, horse is included in animal. 
Take, again, a negative syllogism ; for instance, 
No predaceous animals are ruminant. 
Lion is a predaceous animal j therefore, 
Lion is not ruminant. 
This may be represented by the folio wing diagram: 



CD 


' 


P 




s 




u 




•8 


fl 


u 


o 


Pn 


3 




I 



That is, predaceous is excluded from ruminant, and lion 
is included in predaceous ; therefore, lion is excluded from 
ruminant. 

This i3 the regular form of syllogism The nature of 
sophisms or false syllogisms may be illustrated by s*milai 
diagrams. For instance, 



SYLLOGISM. 



299 



All quadrupeds are animals. 
Birds ?i,re animals ; therefore, 
Birds are quadrupeds. 



1 



That is, quadrupeds are included in animals ; birds are 
included in animals, but are not included in quadrupeds ; 
therefore, nothing is concluded. Again, 

Food is necessary to life. 

Corn is food ; therefore, 

Corn is necessary to life. 



That is, necessary to life includes some food, "Silt 'iot all 



300 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 

food includes corn but, as necessary to life does not include 
all food, so corn is not of necessity included in necessary to 
life. So, again, 

Black is a color. 

White is a color ; therefore, 

Black is white. 



Here color includes black and also includes white. Both 
ate colors, but we see at a glance that nothing is concluded. 

In this manner we may represent various forms of syl- 
logisms and sophisms. The above examples will, however, 
sufficiently illustrate the nature of both. 

In some cases we are able to discover a middle term which 
is intuitively true and fulfils all the conditions of proof. 
Here our course is plain. But suppose we are unable to do 
this, what course remains for us ? We are then obliged to 
construct a conjectural syllogism, which will prove our 
proposition, provided we can show its premises to be true. 
We then take the conjectural premise, and construct a syllo- 
gism by which it can be proved. If here one of our prem- 
ises is conjectural, we construct another syllogism, until 
we have arrived at some proposition which we are able to 
prove. In this manner the premise in question is estab- 
lished. When both the original premises are proved, tha 



REASONING. 



30 1 



work is done, and the original conjectural syllogism ia 
shown to be true. Or, on the other hand, if, attempting to 
prove either of our premises, we find the foundation on which 
it rests to be false, we abandon it altogether, and seek for 
some other media of proof. 

This process may, I think, be illustrated by the prop- 
osition commonly known as the 47th of the first book 
of Euclid's elements, or that which proves that in any 
right-angled triangle, the square of the side subtending the 
right angle is equal to the sum of the squares of the sides 
containing the right angle. I presume every reader to be 
familiar with the proposition, and, therefore, I need only 
indicate briefly the illustration whicL I have to offer. 



a y: a 

a K 

/ :: 



The proposition to be proved is that the squares a and b 
are together equal to the larger square x. 

Here I can find no middle term of acknowledged truth 
by which to prove this proposition. I proceed, therefore, 
and construct an argument which will prove it provided the 
premises can be skown to be true. Having divided th« 
larger square, x, into two parts, by the line 6, 7, I say, 
26 



802 INTELLECTUAL PMLOSOPHY. 

Things equal to the same are equal to each other. 

The square x, and the sum of the squares a and 6, are 
equal to the parallelograms a! and b '. 

Therefore, the square x is equal to the sum of the squares 
a and b. 

Now this syllogism will prove the proposition if I can 
show the premises to be true. But it is not proved that the 
squares a and b are respectively equal to the parallelograms 
a and b ' . This is, in the next place, to be proved. 

I say, then, again, 

The doubles of equals are equal. 

The parallelogram a and the square a are each double 
of the equal triangles, 1, 2, 3, and 6, 2, 5. 

Therefore, the parallelogram a' and the square a are 
equal. 

But it is yet to be proved that these two triangles are 
equal. This has been taken for granted. 

I proceed again. 

Triangles having two sides equal, and the angle contained 
by these two sides equal, are themselves equal. 

These triangles have these sides and angles equal ; 

Therefore, these two triangles are equal. 

The equality of the triangles proves the square and 
parallelogram to be equal, and thus my conjectural syllo- 
gism is proved to be true. 

The conjectural syllogism with which I commenced, 
proved the proposition, provided its premises could be 
proved. I have proved the premises, and, therefore, the 
proposition is proved. 

But, having discovered this truth, suppose I wish to com- 
municate it to another. I then reverse the process, and 
commence with the proposition with which I just now con- 
cluded. 

I first show that the triangles are equal , 



REASONING*. 303 

Then, that a rectangle and a triangle being on the same 
base and between the same parallels, the rectangle is double 
of the triangle ; 

Hence the triangles being equal, the rectangle and the 
Bquare must be equivalent. 

And, hence, the two smaller squares and the greater 
square being both equal to the two parallelograms, the two 
smaller, and the greater square are equal to each other. 

In this instance the example is taken from the mathe- 
matics. But the case is essentially the same in all cases 
where we attempt to prove a proposition. We first con- 
struct a syllogism, which, if true, will prove it. But one 
or both the premises may be doubtful. We take the doubt- 
ful premise and form a syllogism, which, if true, will prove 
it. If, here, one of our premises is conjectural, we make a 
third proposition, which, in like manner, we attempt to prove, 
until we arrive at some acknowledged truth from which it 
proceeds. We then construct our argument, beginning with 
the fundamental truth at which we last arrived, and proceed 
outwards, reversing our process, until we show that our orig- 
inal proposition depends upon truth which all must ac- 
knowledge. 

Thus, when one of our premises is denied, we must prove 
our premise. If the premise of this proof is denied, wa 
must prove this premise. Going backward, in this manner, 
we at last arrive at first truths, or those which every mind, 
in a normal condition, perceives by intuition to be true- 
Thus, in the proposition just taken for an example, if our 
premises were continually denied, we should at last arrive 
at the definitions and axioms of geometry. And thus, in any 
other reasoning, we arrive, by the same process, at truths 
equally obvious to a sound understanding. When we hava 
arrived at these, reason can go no further. If these ara 
denied, the party denying must be wanting in ordinary 



804 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 

intellect, or we must have taken as true what is obviously 
false. Whichever be the case, there is an end of argument, 

We hear it frequently said that all mathematical reason- 
ing depends upon definitions and axioms. This is true; but 
their importance depends upon different principles. It may 
be well to consider briefly the nature of each. 

A definition is a conception expressed in language. 
Thus, if I am about to prove to another ptrson a proposi- 
tion in which I use the conception of lines, angles, trian- 
gles, squares and circles, it is evident that my argument 
will be useless to him, unless, when I use these words, he 
have the same conceptions as myself. If, when I say 
" line," he has the same conception that I have when I say 
" triangle," we could never understand each other. It ia 
necessary, therefore, that I explain, as clearly as possible, 
the conception which I form when I use these terms. Hav- 
ing done this, and it being certain that we have the same 
conception when we use the same words, we are prepared 
to proceed in our argument. 

An axiom expresses an intuitively perceived relation be- 
tween our conceptions. Thus, having defined what we mean 
by lines, angles, and other elements of quantity, we say 
" Two straight lines cannot enclose space." " Things equal 
to the same are equal to one another." These relations 
being conceded by both parties, and the same conceptions 
being common to both, we have the elements necessary for 
reasoning. 

When it is said, therefore, that we cannot reason without 
definitions and axioms, the impossibility arises from differ- 
ent causes. We cannot reason without definitions, because 
we cannot reason together unless the terms whidi we em- 
ploy create in the minds of each other the same conceptions* 
But this cannot be known unless the terms which we usa 
are adequately explained ; that is, unless * hey are defined 



AXIOMS AND DEFINITIONS. 305 

The leason for the necessity of axioms is different. Wo 
must agree as to the laws to which these conceptions are 
Bubjected, or else we can never arrive at a common conclu- 
sion. If I show that what I assert is true, for otherwise 
two straight lines must enclose space, or that the whole be 
less than its part, 1 can proceed no further. But, if my 
opponent does not admit these axioms or laws of quantity to 
f>e true, he will never feel the force of my reasoning, and 
mil, of course, not be convinced. 

This is manifestly true in the mathematics. But it is 
obvious that the same principles must govern all our rea- 
sonings. Unless men attach the same meaning to the same 
term, that is, unless a term awakens in each the same con- 
ception, they can no more reason together than they could 
if each spoke a language unknown to the other. In ordi- 
nary discourse, the meaning of terms is sufficiently estab- 
lished by usage to prevent any serious difficulty. It is found, 
however, necessary, when accuracy of reasoning is attempted, 
to proceed further, and define our terms with the greatest 
precision. Were this more frequently done, much valuable 
labor would be saved, and differences of opinion among hon- 
est men would be found less important than they seem to be. 
And so of axioms. Unless the relations which exist between 
these conceptions are admitted, men may reason together 
forever without coming to any conclusion. Thus, were two 
men arguing together on the nature of human rights, they 
might define man as accurately as they pleased, but, unlesa 
they agreed upon the relation which man sustains to indi- 
vidual man and to society, they could never come to any con- 
clusion. Neither would be pressed by the arguments of 
the other, and what seemed to the one perfectly conclusive, 
would to the other seem destitute of all show of reason. It 
is to be regretted that much of our reasoning is apt to be of 
ihis character, 

26* 



306 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 

The -whole subject of syllogisms, their nature and classi- 
fication, the rules to which they are subjected, and the dis- 
tinction between true and false syllogisms, is treated of in 
the science of logic. To these the reader is referred for a 
further development of the doctrines here briefly alluded 
to. I ask leave to commend this study to all persons who 
aim at the attainment of mental acuteness, and the thorough 
cultivation of their reasoning power. 

RE FE RENCES. 

Reasoning, its nature — Reid, Essay 7, chap. 1. 

Reasoning, instinctive — Reid, Essay 7, chap. 1. 

Reasoning rests on first truths — Reid, Essay 1, chap. 2; Essay 6, 
chap. 2. 

This denied — Locke, Book 4, chap. 2, sees. 7, 8 ; chap. 7, sees. 8, 10, 
19, 20. 

Cousin's Review of Locke — chap. 9. 

Buffier, first truths. 

Test of first truths — Reid, Essay 6, chap. 4. 

Classification of first truths — Reid, Essay 1, chap. 2 ; Essay 6, chaps. 
6,6. 

Judgment, its nature — Reid, Essay 6, chap. 1. 

Judgment distinguished from testimony and conceptions — Reid, Essay 
0, chap. 1. 

Judgments necessary and contingent — Reid, Essay 6, chap. 1. 

Common Sense, Reid, Essay 6, chap. 2. 

Syllogism not the great instrument of reasoning — Locke, Book 4, 
chap. 17, sees. 4 — 7 ; Cousin, chap. 9. 

Aristotle's logic examined — Stewart, vol. ii., chap. 3, sec. 1. 

Effects of study of logic on intellectual habits — Stewart, vol. ii., chap 
f , sec. 2. 

Use of definitions — Stewart, vol. ii., chap. 2, sec. 3. 

Nugatory propositions — Locke, Book 4, chap. 8, sec. 4. 

Propositions true cr false — Locke, Book 2, chap. 32 seca. 1—4. 



KINDS OF CERTAINTY. 301 



SECTION II. — OF THE DIFFERENT KINDS OF CERTAINTY AT 
WHICH WE ARRIVE BY REASONING. 

I have remarked that by the process of reasoning, if 
properly conducted, we always render the conclusion aa 
certain as the premises. This is the sole object of syllo- 
gism, and ( this it invariably accomplishes. I have also 
observed that our conclusions may be either certain, or only 
probable, according to the nature of the premises from 
which they proceed. 

Dismissing the consideration of the cases in which we 
establish probability, and confining our attention to that in 
which we arrive at certainty, we perceive that this certainty 
is of two kinds. We may arrive, first, at metaphysical or 
absolute, or, secondly, at practical certainty. Let us attempt 
to distinguish these from each other, and show the pecu- 
liarities of each. 

I. Of metaphysical and absolute certainty. 

When we arrive at this kind of certainty, the matter of 
our reasoning is wholly conceptions, or the notions which 
we form in our own minds, representing no actual reality. 
These are, of course, precisely what we make them, neither 
greater nor less, nor in any possible respect different from 
our thoughts ; for they are our thoughts themselves, and 
nothing else. Hence, when they are distinctly compre- 
hend 3d, and formed into syllogism according to the rules of 
logic, they must lead to a conception of the same character 
as the premises, and be inevitably as true. There is no lia- 
bility for misconception or ambiguity. The result must be 
£8 true as our thoughts themselves. 

The most remarkable example of this mode of reasoning 
is found in the pure mathematics. Here the matter about 
which we reason is pure conceptions. We demonstrate trutU 



808 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 

about hies angles, triangles, circles, etc., not as actual ex- 
istences but merely as conceptions. By our definitions, wo 
announce distinctly the ideas intended by the terms which 
we employ. These ideas we continue to use without change 
throughout our reasonings, and the results at which we 
arrive are concerning these alone. 

I have said that in this mode of reasoning we have noth- 
ing to do with actual existences. This is evideift from the 
fact that the pure mathematics might have been carried to 
any conceivable degree of perfection, had a material uni- 
verse never been created. All that is required for this 
mode of reasoning is a thinking mind. Hence we never, 
in geometry, attempt to prove anything respecting an exist- 
ing figure. We may use a diagram for the sake of concen- 
trating our attention, but our reasoning is not concerning it, 
or any other thing visible or tangible. No actual figure 
exactly corresponds with our definitions, and, if it did, we 
have no faculties by which to ascertain the correspondence. 
We say the angles at the base of an isosceles triangle are 
equal. This we show to be unconditionally true. But it is 
true of our conceptions only, and not of the diagram on the 
blackboard. We do not know that the lines of that triangle 
are perfectly straight, or the sides equal; nay, we know 
that it is beyond our power to make them so. But this in 
no manner affects our demonstration. If any one should 
attempt to convict us of error, by measuring the triangle 
and showing that one angle was greater than the other, we 
Bhould smile at his ignorance. We know that our proposi- 
tion i» tru a concerning the conception existing in our minds, 
and this is all we ever attempted to prove. 

I have said that the most striking example of this speciea 
of reasoning is observed in the case of the pure mathe- 
matics. I know of no reason, however, why it should not 
exist in anv other case in which the matter jf our argu- 



KINDS OF CERTAINTY. 309 

ment is pure conception. All that is necessary is that our 
terms be accurately defined and clearly apprehended, and 
that they be subjected to the laws of syllogistic reasoning. 
The result must be as purely truth in the one case as the 
other. Thus, 

1. All accountable beings are entitled to freedom. 

2. Sylphs and gnomes are accountable beings. 
8. Sylphs and gnomes are entitled to freedom. 
Suppose the first proposition clearly understood. 
Sylphs and gnomes are imaginary beings, of which I 

form a conception just as I please. The conclusion must 
follow as clearly and inevitably as in mathematical demon- 
stration. 

It must, however, be manifest that the range of subjects of 
this character is extremely limited, and, therefore, its utility 
by no means extensive. We live in a matter-of-fact world. 
We desire to enlarge our knowledge, not of mere conceptions, 
but of realities. We wish to know the laws of things actually 
existing, and so to use them as to ascertain other laws of 
which we are ignorant. In order to do this, we must 
come forth from the region of conceptions into that of real- 
ities. Thus, the pure mathematics themselves would be 
utterly useless, except as a discipline, unless we combined 
them w T ith existing facts, when they assume the form of 
mixed mathematics. Here, however, we arrive not at abso- 
lute, but practical certainty. Let us observe the manner 
in which II. Practical certainty is attained. 

In this kind of reasoning, either one or both of our prem- 
ises is some general law, or particular fact, established by 
observation or experiment. Our conclusion, then, approaches 
no nearer to absolute truth, than our fact or observation 
represents the pure and absolute verity. But no one pre- 
tends that our faculties are capable of arrivil g at pure and 
absolute truth. It has cften been remarked that a perfect 



310 INTELLECTU vL PHILC SOPHY. 

Circle, or triangle, or square, nevtr was construct*], and 
that no instrument ever made, could claim to be absolutely 
accurate. Our processes may be as perfect as the present 
condition of the arts will allow, but we can go no further. 
Progress in the arts may enable us to exclude additional 
causes of error, and thus arrive at greater accuracy. But 
when we have done all, our powers are limited and imper- 
fect ; and, to use the words of Johnson, u a fallible being 
must fail somewhere." The eye is incapable of discerning 
objects below a certain magnitude, or differences which do 
not exceed a certain degree. The sensation of touch can 
only detect impressions when their impulse attains to a cer- 
tain force. Our nerves are easily fatigued, and fatigue im- 
pairs their accuracy of observation, and their control over 
our muscles. The various passions to which we are subject 
influence our whole sentient organism, and frequently unfit 
us for observation at a time when their perfect accuracy is 
the most needed. It is said that when Sir I. Newton had 
arrived very nearly at the close of that calculation which 
has made his name immortal, and saw the result to which 
he was tending, he was seized with so violent a fit of trem- 
bling, that, unable to complete the work, he surrendered his 
papers to a friend, by whom it was finished. It is told of 
one of the observers sent many years ago to the Pacific 
Ocean to observe the transit of Venus, that, at the precise 
moment when the transit occurred, he fainted from excess 
of excitement. Perfect accuracy can, therefore, never be 
predicated of a being in whose organization are involved so 
many liabilities to error. 

Thus, for instance, in the mixed mathematics we arrive 
^t only practical certainty. Here we first establish the 
relations existing between the lines of a figure of which .we 
have conceived. This is pure mathematics, and our result 
is absolute truth. We then apply these relations to a figure 



I 



KINDS OF CERTAINTY. 311 



actually existing, and as nearly identical with the figure 
which we have conceived, as we are able to make it, and 
proceed to our result. This result is obviously not ab- 
oolute truth; it is only proximate ; that is, just as hear to 
absolute truth as the actual figure is near to the perfect 
conception which forms the basis of our reasonings. 

Let us take an example. I demonstrate by pure math- 
ematics that the homologous sides of similar triangles are 
proportional. Availing myself of this law, I proceed to 
ascertain the height of a steeple. I measure a base line, 
and observe the angle formed between the extremity of thia 
line and the highest point of the object. I find a corre- 
sponding tabular triangle in the tables, and by a single pro- 
portion arrive at the result. But is this a perfect result ? 
Its accuracy depends upon the accuracy of my measure- 
ments of the base line and the angle. But are these infallible ? 
Was my chain perfectly true ? Was the temperature such as 
to have effected no change upon it ? Was the surface perfectly 
level, and was my muscular tension precisely such as to 
ensure perfect accuracy, and, at every movement of the chain, 
was that tension precisely the same ? Was the instrument 
with which I measured the angle, of perfect construction 
and in perfect order ? Was there no tremor in my muscles, 
and was my sight of the object absolutely true ') No one 
of these things can be asserted, and, unless they can all be 
asserted, perfect accuracy is impossible. But what then ? 
Are our results valueless ? By no means. They are per- 
fect for any and every practical purpose. If we have taken 
every precaution in our power to exclude the liability of error, 
we have arrived at all the certainty which the present con- 
dition of knowledge admits. We know that our result can- 
not, except by accident, be perfectly accurate ; bu<- it is so 
accurate that neither ourselves nor any one else can detect 
any error This is, to all intents and purposes, precisely 



312 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 

as good to us as absolute certainty. In the one case we 
know that there is no error ; and, in the other, although we 
admit there may be error, yet neither we nor any one else 
is able to detect it. 

The case is illustrated in the study of astronomy. We 
here first conceive of spherical triangles, and determine, by 
demonstration, the relations between them. Here we arrive 
it absolute truth. We then measure degrees on the earth's 
surface, we take the measure of angles, we make observa- 
tions on the times and places of planetary bodies, and, by 
constructing triangles as far as possible identical with those 
which we have before conceived, we determine the distance 
of the sun, and the diameter of the orbit of the earth. But 
does any one pretend that these calculations are absolutely cor- 
rect ') Their accuracy depends wholly on the perfection of 
the observations, which, of necessity, enter as elements into 
our calculations. Were our measurements of lines and 
angles absolutely perfect ? Were our observations abso- 
lutely infallible? This, from the nature of our faculties 
and the imperfection of instruments, is manifestly impossible. 
Our conclusions must, therefore, share in, or must greatly 
magnify, these imperfections. We say the sun is so many 
millions of miles from the earth ; but, thus speaking, do we 
intend to be understood as enunciating an absolute truth ? 
Do we mean that it may not be a hundred or a thousand 
miles either nearer or more distant 1 All we know is that 
we are unable to discover any error ; that we have arrived 
at as near an approximation to truth as is possible in the 
j- resent condition of science. We can do no more, and we 
pretend to do no more. This is as far as our Creator has 
permitted .us, in our present state, to proceed, and with 
this we must be content. When we have approached sc 
near to the truth that we can discover no error, we have 
arrived at practical certainty, and we need ask for no more. 



KINDS OF CERTAINTY. 313 

Now, if I do not mistake, this is precisely the method of 
rur reasoning respecting any matters of fact. We reason 
by conceptions. If our premises, matters of fact, the result 
)f observation, precisely correspond with these conceptions, 
our reasonings are true absolutely. But we cannot be sure 
'hat there is this perfect correspondence. We may, how- 
ever, be convinced that this correspondence is so nearly 
exact that the human faculties can discover no error, and 
hcr£, as before, we arrive at practical certainty, or the limit 
marked out for us by our intellectual constitution. When 
our premises have been established with all the accuracy of 
which our Maker has made us capable, and our conclusion 
from them follows by the laws of reasoning, we have arrived 
at as near an approximation to truth as is possible in our pres- 
ent state. If neither we nor any one else can point out 
any error, we may well be satisfied ; for we may know that 
the error can never be appreciated by the faculties which 
God has given us ; and, therefore, to us it is precisely the 
same as if it were absolutely true. 

Thus, suppose we say, 

When men can have no motive for testifying falsely, 
their testimony is worthy of belief. 

A and B can have no motive for testifying falsely ; there- 
fore the testimony of A and B is worthy of belief. 

The truth of the first of these propositions would, I pre- 
sume, be admitted ; it being one of the acknowledged laws 
of human action, since no man acts without a motive. The 
Becond only can admit of doubt. We, therefore, make it 
the object of special examination. We survey all the mo- 
lives by which men are known to be influenced. We in- 
quire whether any of these motives could have induced 
them to speak falsely. We are unable to discover any. Wo 
then rely with firmness on the conclusion that they have 
testified truly. It may be said that motives for falsehood 
27 



814 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 

may exist which have never been discovered. Be it so. But, 
inasmuch as we have been unable to discover them, we have 
arrived at the nearest approximation to truth which our 
faculties admit, and we must rely on such faculties as wa 
possess. When, in the full and free exercise of our intel- 
lectual powers, we can discover no error in our premises, 
and no error in our reasoning, we must receive as true the 
conclusions which they necessitate. We have no other re- 
source. If we deny this, there is an end to all reasoning, 
and everything beyond our own observation is a delusion. 

If we now compare these two kinds of reasoning, we ob- 
serve the following facts : 

1. The process which we employ is, in both cases, precisely 
the same. When we attempt to discover truth by reason- 
ing, we use syllogism ; for this is the mode of action im- 
posed upon our reasoning faculty. We U3e this, for we 
have no other to use. 

2. The one kind of reasoning treats only of conceptions 
both in its premises and its conclusions. With actual exist- 
ences, res gestce, it has nothing to do. Of course, it is 
excluded from all cases which involve matters of fact. The 
other has to do with actual existences, and to them its con- 
clusions refer. Hence, this is the mode of reasoning which 
we must, of necessity, employ in all the business of life, 
and in all those investigations of science which contemplate 
things as actual existences. 

3. By the one we arrive at absolute certainty respecting 
things not existing except in our conceptions. By the other 
we arrive at practical certainty respecting things as exist- 
ing wholly distinct and separate from ourselves. In the 
one case Ave arrive at absolute truth ; in the other, we ap- 
proach as near to absolute truth as the limited and imper- 
fect nature of our faculties admits. We approach sa d<«*J 
to it that wg are unable to detect any error. 



KINDS 01 CERTAIN! f. bl5 

It will be observed that these two kinds of reasoning cor- 
respond in general to those commonly termed demonstrative 
und moral reasoning. I have used different terms fnm those 
commonly employed, because I suppose them better adapted 
to the subject. It will be seen, if what I have said be 
true, that the difference between these two kinds of reason- 
ing is much less than has frequently been supposed, both as 
to the mode in which they are conducted, and the results at 
which they arrive. 

From what has been said, I think it will appear that but 
little ground exists for the superiority which has been claimed 
for demonstrative reasoning, or that which treats purely of 
conceptions. It is granted that in this species of reasoning 
we arrive at absolute truth; but then, from its conditions, 
it excludes all actual existences, and can. therefore, furnish no 
guide to conduct. As soon as demonstrative reasoning has 
to do with matters of fact, it reposes, by necessity, upon 
moral reasoning, and, specially, on the evidence of testimony. 
Thus, suppose I have demonstrated the distance of the sun 
from the earth. It is evident that the facts which form the 
elements of my reasoning must be established by what is 
called moral evidence. I am told that such and such obser- 
vations have been made by different men, through a succes- 
sion of years. Now, here is a two-fold liability of error. 
In the. first place, how do I know that these observations 
were ever made at all ? I have nothing here to rely on but 
the testimony of men. which is said to be so vastly inferior 
in certainty to demonstration. In the second place, what 
assurance have I that these observations were correctly 
made } How shall I be sure that all the instruments were 
perfect, or that proper skill was employed in the use of 
them I Important errors have frequently been made by sci- 
entific men. Sir Isaac Newton's discoveries were for several 
years postponed by an error in meaau] ing a decree of the 



316 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 

earth's surface. What shall guard us against similar erior 7 
Now, if these are not reliable grounds of belief, all our dem- 
onstration is useless ; for, on the facts which they deliver 
to us, all our calculations rely. Our demonstrations, then, 
as soon as they affect any matter of fact, are limited in their 
certainty by moral evidence, and they attain to no higher 
Certainty than moral evidence confers. By the evidence of 
testimony, however, we are assured that these observations 
were made. From the known characters of the observers, 
we have every reason to believe that they were made cor- 
rectly. On these assurances our calculations proceed, and 
they arrive at a degree of accuracy so great that neither we 
nor any one else can discover any error. 

From these remarks we perceive the absurdity of demand- 
ing what is called demonstrative evidence to substantiate a 
matter of fact. Men sometimes tell us, for instance, that a 
revelation from God, being a matter of so great importance, 
should have been attested by mathematical demonstration. 
We see that to ask this is to demand what is absolutely 
impossible. Being a matter of fact, it must come under the 
laws of evidence which belong to matters of fact. To 
attempt to prove a fact by mathematical demonstration is as 
absurd as to attempt to prove a mathematical proposition by 
testimony. 

REFERENCES. 

Conclusions either certain or probable — Reid, Essay 6, chapter 4 ; 
Essay 7, chap. 1. 

Metaphysical and mathematical reasoning — Reid, Essay 7, chapter 1 ; 
Locke, Book 4, chapter 4, section 6. 

Nature of demonstrative evidence — Stewart, vol. ii., chap. 2, sees. 3, 4. 

Superiority of mathematical reasoning — Stewart, vol. ii., chapter 2, 
Bection 3 ; Reid, Essay 7, chap, 2. 

Morality capable of demonstration — Locke, Book 4, chap. 2, sections 
16, 18 ; chap. 3, section 18 ; chap. 4, section 7 

Conclusions in mixed mathematics as sure as data- Stewart, vol. ii , 
tbap. 2, section 4. 



EVIDENCE OF TESTIMONY. SI 7 



SECTION III. --OF THE EVIDENCE OF TESTIMONY. 

In demonstrative reasoning our premises rest upon truths 
intuitively perceived by every intellect in a normal condi- 
tion, or else upon truths proceeding from these by necessity, 
In reasoning concerning matters of fact, many of our 
premises are general laws, established by observation and 
experience. But this observation and experience must be 
established by many witnesses. A single individual can 
observe but little. We must all rely upon the labors of 
others. But how shall we distinguish true from false 
testimony 1 Many things have been recorded as true, 
which have subsequently been found to be false. We 
need, therefore, to ascertain the laws by which testimony 
may be established, so that we may be able to proceed witn 
certainty in our reasonings. It is, therefore, proper to ex- 
amine this part of our subject, and determine, if possible, 
the principles on which the evidence of testimony rests. 

Testimony is of two kinds, direct and indirect. 

I. Of direct testimony. 

It must be admitted that the testimony of man is a source 
of as certain knowledge as any that we possess. If we refer 
to our own consciousness, we find no difference between the 
strength of our belief in matters of fact and matters of 
demonstration. We as perfectly believe that such persona 
as Julius Caesar, Cicero, Alexander, Martin Luther, Wash- 
ington, and Napoleon, existed ; that the battles of Mara- 
thon, Bunker Hill, Austerlitz and Waterloo, were fought ; 
and that there are now standing the cities of London, Paris. 
and Vienna, as we believe that the three angles of a triangle 
are equal to two right angles. If we ask ourselves which 
do we most confidently believe, we can discover no shade of 
diiference In any practical matter we should proceed upon 
2"* 



S18 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 

the belief of oae as readily a« upon that of the other. This 
is true of mankind universally. If this be so, then both of 
these grounds of belief must rest equally upon the laws of 
human thought. There must exist elementary first truths, 
acknowledged by all men, on which our confidence ulti- 
mately reposes. That this is true of mathematical reason- 
ing is universally admitted. It must, however, be equally 
true of any other mode of proof which produces the same 
results. 

Let us take another case. We are told that, a few yearg 
since, an eclipse of the sun occurred on a Sunday, a little 
after noon. It had been predicted by astronomers, and their 
predictions concerning it had been extensively published. 
Men in every place on this continent declared that they wit- 
nessed it. The daily newspapers, immediately after it is said 
to have occurred, were filled with accounts of the phenomena 
that were said to have been observed. Every fact respect- 
ing it was minutely recorded, and the statements of its 
various phases were inserted in the transactions of learned 
societies throughout the world. Now, granting these facts 
to be so, could we any more doubt that an eclipse really 
occurred, at the time and in the manner specified, than we 
could doubt a proposition in geometry ? Suppose that one 
man, under these circumstances, should doubt the fact of 
the eclipse, and another should doubt a demonstration in 
mathematics, should we not decide that the mind of the one 
was in as abnormal a state as that of the other ? 

Yet I am aware that there are differences in the belief 
in the two cases. In the one case our belief is in the truth 
as universal, as true at all times and in all places. In the 
other, it is particular ; that is, it is not true of every time 
Mid every place, but only of this time and this place. In the 
one case our knowledge is perfect and complete ; that is, we 
know the whole cf the truth affirmed, and nothing cai be 



EVIDENCE OF TESTIMONY. 31 $ 

added to render our knowledge more adequate. "When lam 
convinced that the three angles of a triangle are equal to 
two right angles, nothing can be added to the proposition by 
which my knowledge can be increased. If I fully compre- 
hend the terms, I have precisely the same knowledge of the 
truth as Newton himself. He might have seen consequences 
derivable from it which I do not see; but our knowledge of 
the proposition itself is entirely the same. In the case of 
the other proposition, that at a given time and place there 
was an eclipse of the sun, it is not so. We all may be equally 
confident of the main fact; but of various circumstances 
respecting it, our knowledge may be dissimilar and unequal. 
Men who observed the eclipse may have been more or less 
influenced by their imaginations ; they may have dissimilar 
appreciations of the temperature, of the degree of darkness, 
of the time and duration of the event. Hence their narra- 
tives may in these respects differ; and it may require much 
labor to ODtain a complete idea of the eclipse; and there may, 
after all, remain many circumstances which we know but 
imperfectly. All this may be granted, and yet it does not 
in the least affect our belief of the, main fact. Nay, all 
these variations must exist if the main fact be true. They 
follow from the differences in the subjective nature of man. 
Hence the rule in testimony is that the best evidence to 
any fact is, agreement of witnesses as to the main event, and 
difference as to the minor particulars. 

The following striking illustration of these remarks is 
worthy of notice. I presume that no one can doubt that 
the battle of Waterloo was fought on the eighteenth of June, 
1815, between the French and the allies, under the com- 
mand respectively of Napoleon and Wellington. It may 
certainly be taken for granted that men believe this fact as 
undoubtingly as they do any proposition in geometry. Yet 
the time of the commencement of the battle cannot even now 



320 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 

be settled with precision. In Maxwell's life cf Wellington 
I find the following statement : 

" The time when the battle began has been stated with 
marked contrariety. The Duke of Wellington says it com- 
menced about ten o'clock, and further observes that when 
his troops discontinued the pursuit, at night, they had been 
engaged twelve hours. In this General Gneisenau concurs, 
but, of course, only from information he had received. 
General Alava, who was by the side of the duke the 
whole day, fixes it at half-past eleven. Napoleon and Gen- 
eral Drouet state twelve as the hour ; while Marshal Ney 
names one o'clock. Without tracing minuter contradictions, 
this may suffice to show the difficulty of attaining exact 
knowledge when it might have been presumed no difficulty 
could exist. With one exception, which I think ought to 
be decisive, I was equally bewildered by the intelligence I 
received from officers whom I had an opportunity of con- 
sulting. By one I was told that the battle began soon after 
mid-day, by another exactly twenty minutes past eleven, and 
by a third at ten o clock. But Sir George Wood — and his 
information is what I conceive cannot be disputed — gave 
me the following statement. The action commenced about 
half-past ten or a quarter to eleven. There had been skir- 
mishing, before, all the morning. A column of the enemy 
was advancing against Hougomont, and the first gun that 
was fired was from our lines against that column. I gave 
the order by the command of the duke. The gun did imme- 
diate execution, and killed six or eight. This column then 
retired, and went round the wood." — Maxwell's Life of 
Wellington, vol. 3, note to page 479. 

We perceive, from this incident, how dissimilar is the 
udequctteness of our knowledge in a matter of fiiot, from 
that in an abstract geometrical proposition j and yet 'u* 



EVIDENCE 0. TESTIMONY. S2l 

confidence 'n the truth of the main fact is as great in the 
one case as in the other. 

But. it may be very properly demanded, is testimony of 
all kinds equally worthy of belief? Are we not very often 
the dupes of false evidence 7 We reply, that in this respect 
we are all very liable to be deceived. But the case is the 
same with mathematical evidence or demonstration. How 
often has it been announced that men have demonstrated 
the quadrature of the circle ; but, upon examination, it has 
been discovered that either they have been deceived, or that 
they desired to deceive others. Either they had commenced 
with false principles, or they had reasoned incorrectly from 
true ones. So in the mixed mathematics, innumerable errors 
have from time to time been discovered and corrected. This, 
however, presents no objection to the validity or reliability of 
mathematical reasoning. It only teaches us the necessity of 
examining our arguments with care, and assuring oursel\es 
that our reasonings are conducted strictly according to the 
laws of mathematical proof. When they are so conducted, 
they never did and they never can lead to error. So in the 
case of evidence. It is granted that we are liable to be de- 
ceived by reliance upon testimony. But this by no means 
proves that testimony is worthless ; or that testimony, when 
given strictly according to the laws of evidence, is not aa 
reliable as demonstration. It only teaches us the necessity 
of subjecting testimony to its own appropriate laws, that we 
mny thus separate the true from the false. If, therefore., 
we can establish the elementary laws of evidence, and *pply 
them strictly to any case of testimony, we receive the 'esult 
to which they lead us with unquestioning confidence. 

The essential and self-evident truths on which t e evi- 
dence of testimony rests, seem to be two. The f rst is 
the law of perception, to which allusion has bean made 
when treating of that subject. It may be expressed as 



W2 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 

follows : Wh3never, in the normal condition of our facul- 
ties, we are conscious of a perception, then there exists an 
object, such as we perceive, as the cause of that perception. 
I cannot perceive what I will. The consciousness of per- 
ception must be excited from without, and it cannot exist 
under normal conditions, unless a corresponding object from 
without give occasion to it. I am conscious that I per- 
ceive the paper on which I now write, and the table at 
which I am seated. I could not, by the laws of my being, 
be thus conscious, unless there existed here and now these 
objects which give rise to it. 

Under the term normal conditions, as here used, several 
things are to be supposed. For instance, the external cir- 
cumstances must be such as to admit of no liability to error, 
If I testify to an object of sight, the light must be suffix 
cient to allow me to see correctly. If I testify to an object 
of sound, I must be near enough to hear it distinctly. The 
same remark applies to the other senses. 

The mind must be in a normal condition. The witness 
must be sane. He must be free from any violence of pas- 
sion or excitement of imagination, which would lead to erro- 
neous observation. Thus, if a man were habitually terrified 
in passing by a grave-yard, we should receive with great 
suspicion his testimony respecting a ghost which he believed 
he had seen seated on a tomb-stone. Intense prejudice, 
which affected the matter in question, would lead to similar 
suspicions. 

Tht senses must be in a normal condition. No one would 
repose perfect confidence in the testimony of a man to a 
visual fact, whose eyes were either partly blind or subject 
to optical illusions. 

Here, however, two remarks deserve attention. First^ 
Wc always take it for granted that men are in a normai 
sondition unless there is evidence to the contrary, Nc 



EVIDENCE OF TESTIMONY. 323 

man is ever called upon to prove his sanity. The verj fact 
that he is thus called upon, must proceed upon the suppo- 
sition that he is able to construct a proof; that is. that he 
is sane. He who affirms that another is insane, must him- 
self furnish the evidence : and. in the absence of such evi- 
dence, the contrary is to be taken for granted. 

Secondly, it is to be remarked that abnormal cases are 
extremely rare. We may meet a thousand individuals, 
without finding one among them whose condition is, in any 
respect, so abnormal as to affect his testimony. And hence, 
when a number of persons agree in testifying to the same 
fact, the supposition of abnormal action is excluded. Thus, 
if only one person had testified that he saw an eclipse, we 
might suppose that his mind or his organs were diseased. 
But to suppose that so large a number of persons, in differ- 
ent places, were in an abnormal condition, and in precisely 
the same condition, at the same time, is manifestly absurd. 

The second general laic is derived from the naturt 
of the active powers of man. It may be stated as fol • 
lows : 

1. Every human action is the result of motive. That 
is to say. when there is no motive there is no action. 

2. When there is no motive for speaking falsely, 
men always speak the truth. The motive which lead3 
men to speak falsely may be very unreasonable or insuffi- 
cient. They will sometimes speak falsely against their own 
permanent interest ; but they always speak from a present 
motive, as fear, vanity, desire of applause, etc. 

3. When no motive can be conceived why men should 
testify as they do. but the love of truth ; and every other 
conceivable motive would impel them to testify differ- 
ently, then they testify from the love of truth : that is, 
they affirm what they believe to be true. To suppose the 
contrary is absurd. For, if no motive but the love ■/' truth 



K24 INTELLECTUAL iAILOSOPHT. 

could impel them to their present testimony, to suppose tna 
love of truth removed, — that is, suppose them to testify 
falsely, — is to suppose men to act without any motive, 
and in opposition to every conceivable motive. This is 
diametrically opposed to ttie laws of human action. To 
suppose any one to act in this manner, is to suppose him 
not to be endowed with proper human faculties. 

But it may be said that motives for speaking falsely may 
exist, though we cannot conceive of them. Granted. But 
then Ave have arrived at the point previously mentioned ; 
that is, we have come so near the truth that we can discover 
no source of error. We have, therefore, attained to thafc 
practical certainty which is all that is given to us in estab- 
lishing any matter of fact. When we have gone so far, we 
have reached the limit which the Creator has assigned to our 
faculties, and we can proceed no further. 

Again ; in the case supposed, when many witnesses tes- 
tify, this motive which no one can assign, which no one 
ventures to announce, and which no one has yet discovered, 
must have influenced a number of persons, against every 
conceivable interest, to testify to the same thing. To make 
such a supposition the ground either of belief or disbelief, 
is manifestly absurd ; but to make it the ground of either, 
in opposition to testimony established by the laws of evi- 
dence, exhibits a state of mind for which it is difficult to 
find a name. 

But suppose that on such ground as this the evidence of 
testimony is to be disregarded, what is the result ? Evi- 
dently, that no fact in history or science could be believed, 
unless we had seen it with our own eyes. The past would 
be a universal blank. Books would be useless, and the 
whole of human knowledge must be limited to our own 
individual experiences. There is here no middle path. 
Either we must receive everything established by the strict 



EVIDENCE OF TESTIMONY. S25 

laws of evidence, or we must receive nothing. Which is 
the alternative to be chosen by a reasonable intelligence, it 
is not difficult to discover. He who desires to see this sub- 
ject treated with great acuteness and admirable humor, 
should read Archbishop Whately's "Historical Doubts 
relative to Napoleon Buonaparte." 

At some risk of prolixity, I will illustrate this subject by 
an example to which I have before referred. 

It is granted that a great number of persons, of different 
ages and pursuits, and in various places throughout this 
country, testified that on a particular day they witnessed a 
total eclipse of the sun. In what manner shall we examine 
this evidence, in order to ascertain whether their testimony 
is worthy of belief 7 

In the first place, we appeal to the law of perception. 
Was this an event which they were all capable of observ- 
ing 1 Could they have been conscious of perceiving it, un- 
less the event had actually occurred ? On this subject there 
cannot exist the # shadow of a doubt. Every one will ad- 
mit that if these persons were all conscious that they per- 
ceived the eclipse, the eclipse must have taken place. 

Secondly, Avere they really conscious that they perceived 
it ; that is, did they testify truly ? 

Here we turn to the law of human motive. W,» say no 
motive but the love of truth could have impelled all these 
persons, of different ages, habits, culture and prejudices, in 
many different places, to unite in this testimony. Take 
away the love of truth, — that is, suppose them to speak 
fabely, — and we must suppose them to act individually with- 
out any motive ; and, still more, that without any motive 
they all. and without concert, united in giving the sunt? 
testimony. The absurdity of this supposition is, 1 think, 
obvious. 

This testimony would be still more irresistible, if tUs 
28 



826 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 

persons who testified were, in consequence of their evidence 
exposed to contempt, obloquy, persecution, loss of property 
and of life. In this case, to suppose them to testify falsely, 
would be to suppose them to act not only without any mo 
tive, but in opposition to every motive. It is impossible tc 
suppose an intelligent being with a human constitution to 
act in this manner. 

In such a case as this, we show that what is testified to 
is true, or else an intuitive law of perception, or an intui- 
tive law of human action is violated. When we have done 
this, we have done all that reasoning can glo. This is all 
we do in demonstrative or mathematical reasoning. We 
there show that unless a proposition be true, an axiom, or an 
intuitive law of quantity, is violated. We can go no further. 
In either case, where we have shown this, the proposition in 
question has been proved. Facts thus established have 
never been shown to be false. Indeed, they never could 
be disproved, for we can never be more certain of anything 
than of the intuitive laws of our own nature. Suppose that 
the opposite of what we have thus proved was also proved, 
it could not show the first proposition to be false. It would 
only establish an opposite proposition on equivalent evidence, 
and we should be perfectly unable to choose between two 
contradictory propositions, both being perfectly entitled to 
belief. 

From these remarks it will appear, that, in establishing 
any fact by testimony, two points, and but two, are of neces- 
sity to be made evident. First, that if the witnesses were 
conscious of perceiving it, it really must have occurred. 
Here we show that the event was one properly cognizable 
by the senses, that the witnesses were in proper conditions, 
objective and subjective, for observing it; that is, that the 
impression on their senses must have been made under the 
ordinary laws of perception. In the second plac^, we show 



EVIDENCE ">F TESTIMONY. 327 

that the witnesses testify to what they really believe to be 
true ; that is, they really believe themselves to have been 
conscious of the perception in question. We here show that 
there can be no motive for testifying falsely; that is, to 
suppose them to testify falsely, is to suppose them to act 
without motive. If we can proceed further, and show that 
if they testify falsely, they not only act without any motive, 
but in opposition to every motive, we have then the same 
evidence as if every witness was on oath. 

In this manner we prove any fact in history ; as the death 
of Caesar in the senate-house, his conquest of Britain, or 
any other event. On these principles trials are conducted 
every day in our courts of law. I do not know of any 
method by which a student will improve his knowledge of 
the science of evidence more advantageously, than by an- 
alyzing carefully the evidence in important trials, when the 
decision depends upon the establishment of matters of fact. 
If the above remarks be correct, they will enable him to 
carry on this examination and analysis with some degree of 
Buccess. 

II. Of indirect or circumstantial evidence. 

In the preceding remarks I have considered the case in 
which the witnesses testify directly to the fact in question ; 
that is, they declare that they themselves perceived the 
fact which they relate. 

But cases are continually occurring in which it is impor- 
tant to establish a fact to which there were no witnesses. 
How, in the absence of witnesses, shall such a fact be 
proved? This is done by indirect or circumstantial evi- 
dence. The principles on which we here proceed are as 
follows : 

It is obvious, from the regular succession of cause and 
effect, to which all the changes in the universe are sub- 
jected, that no event can occur isolate J and alone. I do 



828 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 

not know that, as we are constituted, it is possible for m to 
conceive of such an event. Every phenomenon is indissolu- 
bly connected with other phenomena, to which it stands in 
permanent relations. When we see water changed into ice 
we know that it must have been exposed to a temperature 
as low as 32°. When water boils, we know that its tempera- 
ture has been raised to 212°. If a body at rest begins to 
move, or if, when moving, it changes suddenly its direction 
we know that some force must have been applied to it. 
These changes could not have produced themselves ; they 
are the result of some stated antecedent. Now, if we can 
show the existence of a train of facts, so related to the fact 
in question, that unless this fact occurred the laws of cause 
and effect must have been violated, then we have proved the 
main fact by indirect, or circumstantial evidence. 

The rules which govern us in this kind of evidence are 
the following : 

1. When we are not inquiring for a fact, but for the 
cause of it, the fact itself must first be established. Thus, if 
it be required to prove that A murdered B, we must first 
prove that B was murdered, and prove it by direct evidence. 

2. In the second place, all the facts, on which we rely to 
prove the fact in question, must be established by direct 
evidence. Thus, if we rely on the facts A, B, D, to prove 
the fact C, — that is, these facts being proved, that the fact 
C must have existed, — we must prove the facts A, B. and 
D, by the personal knowledge of witnesses themselves. 

8. We must show that the facts A, B, and D, could not 
have existed unless the fact C had existed. When we have 
established these facts, and shown that they can be accounted 
for on no other supposition than the existence of the fact C, 
— that is, that unless the fact C occurred, a Jaw of nature 
has been violate!, — then, we have proved this fret by indi- 
rect evidence. 



INDIRECT EVIDENCE. 329 

This, however, will be rendered more eviden by an ex- 
ample. Take the following case. B is found alone in a 
room, do id, stabbed in the back and his skull fractured by 
the stroke of a bludgeon. The first thing to be established 
is that the man is dead ; and, secondly, that his death was 
occasioned by the wounds upon his person ; and, thirdly, that 
the wounds could not have been inflicted by himself; that 
is, that he died by the hands of another, and not by his own. 
These facts must be proved by direct evidence. It is thus 
shown that the man was murdered. The question next to 
be answered is, who was the murderer ? 

Here it is shown that A and B unlocked the door and 
entered the room together. A noise, as of altercation, was 
heard. No one entered the room until A left it, an. I the 
first person who entered it after his departure found B dead 
in the manner described. Now, these facts having been 
established, it is proved that A is the murderer. The man 
is dead. He died of these wounds. They could have been 
inflicted by no person except A or B himself. They are so 
situated that B could not have inflicted them on himself; 
they must, therefore, have been inflicted by A. 

But, besides these, other antecedent and subsequent facts 
m:iy confirm the supposition of the guilt of A. For instance, 
men do not commonly commit such a crime without a vio- 
lent motive. If such a motive existed, it gives confirmation 
to the supposition of his guilt. And, again, when a man 
has committed so atrocious a crime, he is commonly appre- 
hensive, and takes means to escape the consequences. If 
B was known to enter the room with a purse of gold and 
was found with his pockets rifled, and if this purse was 
found in the possession of A, this will furnish a motive for 
the deed. If A immediately afterwards changed his name, 
disguised his person, and was preparing immediately to 
escape from the vicinity, and no reason but his guilt can be 
28* 



830 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 

assigned for his conduct, this is a strong confirmatory cir* 
cumstance. The supposition that he was the murderer can 
alone account for all his subsequent conduct. 

Hence, we see the points which are to be made out by 
the prosecution in any trial where the evidence is circum- 
stantial. First, the crime mu3t have been committed. For 
instance, if it be a case of murder, the body must be found, 
and it must be proved that the death was caused by violence. 
Second, the facts must be such as can be accounted for on 
no other supposition than that the accused was the murderer. 
If they can be accounted for on any other reasonable suppo- 
sition, then the case is not proved. And, on the other 
hand, the ground of the defence is, first, that the deceased 
did not die by violence ; or, in general, that he was not mur- 
dered ; or that, if murdered, the facts can be accounted for 
on some other supposition. The facts in all cases must be 
established, as I have said, by direct testimony. 

In every trial, where the evidence is circumstantial, we 
hear much said about the uncertainty of this kind of evi- 
dence, and various cases are mentioned in which the lives 
of innocent men have been sacrificed in consequence of this 
uncertainty. This may have been the case when the prin- 
ciples of evidence were less perfectly understood than at 
present. But, if a trial is conducted according to the rules 
of evidence as at present established, circumstantial proof 
may be relied on with as much certainty as direct. Men 
may be mistaken as to a fact, or they may swear falsely ; 
but a well-connected chain of circumstances can rarely de- 
ceive us. It is somewhat remarkable, that, in a late trial 
for murder in Boston, where the evidence was circum- 
stantial, the circumstances proved, all led to the true result; 
while the direct evidence, intended to prove an alili, waa 
absolutely, though innocently, erroneous. 

This kind of evidence is frequently resorted to in scientific 



INDIRECT EVIDENCE. 331 

investigations. Certain facts are observed. In what man- 
ner are they to be accounted for ? that is. what must have 
been the nature and the order of the changes by which these 
appearances were produced ? When we have conceived of 
a cause, or succession of causes, which will account for all 
the facts, and which alone can account for them, we may 
consider such cause or causes as matter of established truth. 
Thus, a geologist observes that a river has cut its way 
through banks a hundred feet high. Some thirty feet be- 
low the surface of the soil a layer of vegetable matter is 
discovered, the stumps of trees, standing upright, imbedded 
in the soil where they grew, and the trees broken off lying 
upon and by the side of them. Some thirty feet lower, 
mother stratum of a similar character is observed. From 
the position of these trees it is evident that they also must 
have grown on the spot where they are found, and, of course, 
that each of these layers must have been, at the time of its 
growth, on the surface of the earth. There is but one way 
in which these facts can be accounted for. After the lower 
layer of trees had grown to its present size, the surface of 
the earth must have subsided until they were covered with 
drift for thirty or more feet. The subsidence was then ar- 
rested until another forest grew up. Another subsidence 
must have occurred until the drift covered the timber again 
to a similar depth. Then the whole surface must have been 
upheaved to its present position, and, afterwards, the river 
must have cut its way through the mass, thus laying bare the 
mode of its formation. As no other cause can be assigned 
for these effects, we are warranted in believing that such 
events as these actually existed. 

It will be seen that direct and circumstantial evidence 
may frequently be found corroborating each other, and they 
chen present the strongest possible ground of belief. If any 
marked event occur, not only will it be seer by witnesses, 



332 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 

but it will 1>3 preceded by its appropriate causes, and fol- 
lowed by its appropriate effects. Thus, the death of Caesar 
is proved by the testimony of eye-witnesses, and contem- 
porary writers. But, besides this, the civil wars in the 
Roman empire, and the character of the parties that were 
formed immediately after that event is said to have taken 
place, can be accounted for on no other supposition than 
that of his violent death. So the invasion and occupation 
of Britain by the Romans is proved by the testimony of 
historians. But if such an event had occurred, we should 
naturally expect that some traces of their occupation would 
be observed in that island. Hence, we examine, and find 
there the remains of Roman encampments, walls, roads, 
Roman coins of that age, and inscriptions which could have 
been made by no other people. These facts can be ac- 
counted for on no other supposition than that of the conquest 
and permanent occupation of Britain by the former con- 
querors of the world. This coincidence of direct and indi- 
rect evidence furnishes the most perfect ground of belief 
which we can conceive to any matter of fact. 

REFERENCES. 

Evidence of testimony — Reid, Essay 7, sec. 3 ; Stewart, vol. ii., chap 
2, sec. 4 ; Abercrombie, Part 2, sec. 3. 

Different kinds of evidence — Reid, Essay 2, chap. 20. 

Testimony of others a source of knowledge — Locke, Book 4, chap, 16, 
•ecs. 6 — 8 ; Abercrombie, Part 2, sec. 3. 

Law 1 ? of testimony — Abercrombie, Part 2, sec. 3. 

Natural bias to truth — Abercrombie, Part 2, sec. 3 ; Reid's Inquiry, 
fhap. 6, sec. 24. 

Hume's argument against miracles — Abercrombie, Part 2, sea 3 

Case when witnesses are numerous — Abercrombie, Part 2, sec. & 

Circumatanti.il evidence — Abercrombie, Part 2, sec. 3. 



PROEABLE REASONING 333 



SECTION IV. — OTHER FORMS OF REASONING. 

I. Of probible evidence. 

Thus far I have treated of those modes of reasoning in 
which our premises are acknowledged to be true, and our 
conclusion is equally, that is, absolutely true. But all of 
our reasoning is not of this character. It frequently hap- 
pens that our premises rise no higher than probability, and 
our conclusions can only reach the same level. Our process 
is, however, precisely the same, the only difference consists 
in the degree of certainty to which we arrive. 

When the reasons for believing a proposition to be true 
are not such as to establish belief, but only to show that it 
is more likely to happen than not, we say that such a propo- 
sition is probable. Thus, if the wind is in a certain quarter. 
I say that it probably will rain. I examine the evidence 
that may be adduced in favor of the proposition that the 
planets are inhabited, and I say that it is or is not probable. 
It may require the cooperation of several causes to render 
an event certain. If, however, only a part of these causes 
unite in a particular case, the event may occur, though we 
cannot expect it with confidence. So, if an intelligent being 
has several times, under given circumstances, acted in a par- 
ticular manner, we form a distinct anticipation that he will 
act in the same manner under similar circumstances. But 
here our anticipation only amounts to a probability, for wo 
know not what changes may have taken place in his charac- 
tei since we last observed him ; and there may have arisen 
circumstances which affect him )f which we are ignorant 
When, in this manner, we attain to mere probability, we call 
our state of mind opinion; that is, we judge a proposition 
more likely to be true than false. 

We take such opinions as the grounds of cur reasonings 



$34 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 

m a large number of cases in practical life. Thus, w« 
say, 

It is probable that the character of a human being will 1)6 
improved by affliction. 

A. B. has suffered affliction ; therefore, 

A. B. is probably improved in character. 

Or, again : 

If there be war in Europe, the price of breadstuff's will rise. 

There will probably be a wai in Europe ; therefore, 

It is probable that the price of breadstuffs will rise. 

When only one of our premises is a doubtful and the 
other a certain proposition, the probability of our conclusion 
is equal to that of our doubtful premise. Thus, it being 
granted that if there be war in Europe prices will rise, the 
probability of our conclusion is precisely as t;reat as the 
probability of a war. When, however, both ol our premises 
are mere probabilities, the probability of our con°.Ksion is 
greatly reduced, and can rarely furnish a ground for au 
opinion. Thus, 

If the south wind blow to-morrow, it will probably rail* 

The south wind will probably blow to-morrow ; therefore 

It is (very slightly) probable that it will rain. 

When so slight an indication of an event is given, it i* 
manifestly of very little use in forming a judgment. 

From the fact that we reason from probabilities, ver^ 
commonly, in the practical business of life, it has happened 
that this mode of reasoning has sometimes been confounded 
with that by which we arrive at practical certainty. It hay 
sometimes been said that moral reasoning, or reasoning 
concerning matters of fact, is nothing else than a succession 
of probable arguments, each one reducing the liabilities of 
error, until they become so small as to be inappreciable. 
The cases, however, are dissimilar. In the one case, we pro- 
ceed from an approximation to truth so near that neither 



PROBABLE REASONING. 835 

we nor other men can discover any error, and the result is 
of the same character. In the other case, we proceed from 
an approximation to truth, but so distant that we can appre- 
ciate our liability to error ; we know the uncertainty of our 
premises, and the result is a mere approximation similar 
to them, producing not belief, but merely opinion. For in- 
£tance, suppose we endeavor to ascertain whether the battle 
of Waterloo was fought on the 18th of June, 1815. Wo 
proceed according to the laws of evidence as before stated. 
We apply the rule of perception, and the rule of human 
motive. We can discover no error, and no other man can 
discover any. I rely upon the result at which I have 
arrived with perfect confidence, and the state of mind of 
which I am conscious is belief, full, entire, and unquestion- 
able. Again ; the question is asked, when did the battle 
commence? I find that here the accounts vary. The best 
authorities differ, some placing it as early as ten o'clock, 
and others as late as one. I form an opinion, by comparing 
the accounts, and balancing the probable motives which 
would lead men into error. I form an opinion as to the 
time, but it is not belief. I am conscious of a state of mind 
very dissimilar to that in the preceding case. 

Or, again ; from the data established by observation as 
accurate as the faculties of men will permit, we determine 
the distance and magnitude of the planet Jupiter. No error 
can be discovered either in our data or our reasoning. We 
know that there may be error, but that it cannot exceed a 
certain amount, and we rely on the result under this con- 
dition with absolute certainty. But when it is said the 
planet Jupiter is inhabited, we collect our data, and they 
give us nothing but a probability to reason from, and wo 
arrive at nothing but an opinion. The states of mind dif- 
fer not in degree but in kind. The one proceeds from data 
in which no error can be discovered by the faculties which 



836 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 

God has given us. The other proceeds from data which w« 
know to be uncertain, and the uncertainty of which we are 
able to appreciate. They, of course, lead to an entirely dif- 
ferent subjective result, and a line of distinct demarcation 
must ever separate the one from the other. 

II. Reasoning from induction. 

The object of this mode of reasoning is to establish a 
general law, from the observation of particular instances. 
The principle on which it depends has been already ex- 
plained, when treating of cause and effect. See pages 153 
-158. 

It is in conformity with our intuitive beliefs, that, from 
observing a change, we proceed to ascertain its cause. We 
knoAv that, wherever the cause exists, the effect must neces- 
sarily follow, and that wherever an event always follows a 
given antecedent, this antecedent must be the cause. We 
therefore observe all the various phenomena which pre- 
cede a change. We ascertain, so far as possible, which of 
them is the invariable antecedent ; in other words, that which 
being present the effect exists, and which being removed the 
effect ceases. When this has been done, we consider our- 
selves to have ascertained the cause. 

Having thus determined, by experiment, the cause in thia 
particular case, we proceed as follows : 

What is the cause of this effect in one case must be the 
cause in all cases. 

The event A is the cause in this case ; therefore, 

The event A is the cause in all cases. 

It frequently happens that there are several antecedents, 
and the greatest skill and the most persevering sagacity are 
requisite in order to determine which of them is invariable. 
We are obliged to try every variety of combinations, in order 
to ascertain with perfect precision the cause, and to sever 
it from every occasional and variable antecedent. When, 



ANALOGY. 337 

However, this is done, we generalize with entire confidence, 
and consider the law as established. 

The manner in which we proceed, in such a case, is illus- 
trated most happily in the process employed by Sir Isaac 
Newton to discover the cause of the solar spectrum. The 
full account may be found in the third chapter of Sir David 
Brewster's life of this great philosopher. 

III. Of reasoning from analogy. 

In this form of reasoning, we do not attempt to prove a 
proposition true, and we may not even attempt to prove it 
probable. All that we generally desire is to prove it not 
improbable. 

In the other cases of which we have treated, we proceed 
upon the supposition that the same cause, under the same 
conditions, will produce the same effects. Here we proceed 
upon the supposition, not that the same cause will produce 
the same effect, but merely that similar causes may produce 
similar effects, in the absence of evidence to the contrary. 

If this mode of reasoning were reduced to a syllogism ft 
would take substantially the following form : 

1. Similar causes may produce similar effects. 

2. The cause A is similar to the cause B ; 

3. Therefore the cause A and B may produce similar 
effects. 

The principal uses of analogical reasoning are the follow- 
ing : 

1. It is frequently employed with success in answering 
an a priori objection. It is thus used with great acutenesa 
and unanswerable force, by Bishop Butler, in his Analogy, 
Thus, if men deny the existence of God, and hence infer 
that there can be no future state of rewards and punish- 
ments, his answ r er is as follows : It is granted, even by 
atheists themselves, that in the present state Ave are rewarded 
for soine actions and punished for others j that i& ; that we 

2tf 



338 INTELLECTUAL IHILOSOPHY. 

find ourselves under a moral government. But, if we ex. at 
under such conditions now, when, by the supposition, there 
is no God, there can be no reason assigned why we may not 
continue to exist after death, and exist under the same con- 
ditions as at present ; that is, under a moral government, in 
which we shall be rewarded and punished, according to the 
character of our actions. The whole of this admirable 
treatise, one of the most remarkable that any language can 
produce, is intended to show that the principles of moral 
government taught in the Scriptures are strictly analogous 
to those everywhere exhibited in the government of the 
world, as seen by natural religion. Hence, it is evident 
that if God has adopted these principles for our government 
in one case, there can be no a priori reason why he should 
.\ot adopt them in another case. " It will here be found," 
says he, " not taken for granted, but proved, that any rea- 
sonable man, who will thoroughly consider the matter, may 
be as much assured as he is of his own being, that it is not 
so clear a case that there is nothing in it." 

While, however, analogy claims to do no more than this, 
it, in many cases, in fact, does much more. It is evident 
that the greater the similarity of cause the greater is the 
probability of the similarity of effects. It may thus, in 
some cases, approximate to proof; at the least, it furnishes 
grounds for a decided opinion. Thus, the similarity of 
niany of the effects of electricity and galvanism created the 
opinion that they were the same agent, before their identity 
was discovered. 

2. It will readily appear that an important use of analo- 
gy is to aid us in scientific investigation. Suppose, for in 
stance, that we have discovered the cause for a well-known 
effect. We observe another effect of a similar character, 
and we instinctively are led to inquire, may it notarise from 
the same or a similar cause 7 Hence in our search aftel 



ANALOGY. 38£ 

Causes, we are greatly aided, and much usele^ labor is saved, 
by such an indication. Thus, Sir II. Davy discovered the 

metallic basis of potash. But there are other alkalies in 
many of their sensible properties nearly allied to potash. 
How natural was it for him to expect that the same laws 
governed them all, and that they all were formed in the same 
manner from metallic bases ! 

3. Analogy is frequently used by the orator with great 
effect. Thus, if it is admitted that a man has acted in one 
way at one time, there is no reason why he might not be 
expected to act in the same way at another time. Or, if it 
is honorable for one man to act in a particular manner in 
one case, there can be no reason why it is not honorable for 
another man, in a case essentially alike, to act in a similar 
manner. This mode of reasoning is used with the happiest 
success by Erskine, in the introduction of his argument for 
Stockdale. He commences by alluding to the fact that, though 
connected by ties of the closest intimacy with the political 
party who had directed the prosecution, yet, Mr. Stockdale 
had not hesitated to entrust him with his defence. He adds, 
"This, however, is a matter of daily occurrence. So unsul- 
lied is the character of the English bar, that no polil 
bias ever interferes with the discharge of the duty of vj ad • 
vocate : that, whatever may be our public principles, cr thft 
private habits of our lives, they never cast even © fjh&Ji 
across the path of our professional duties. If this b*> char 
acteristic of the bar of an English court of justice what 
sacred impartiality may not every man expect from ics ju- 
rors and its bench." Many similar instances may be found 
in the speeches of this eminent orator, perhaps the most 
Consummate advocate of modern times. 

It is. however, obvious, that this mode of reasoning is lia- 
ble to great abuse. The whole force of the argument de- 
pends on the similarity of the cases. But if &n ddvocaU 



340 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 

can present cases seeming to be similar, while, in fact, the J 
are widely diverse, he may draw from them the most erro- 
neous conclusions. It is, therefore, the business of an oppo- 
nent, or of an inquirer after truth, to examine reasoning of 
this kind with the closest scrutiny ; and, when it is defective, 
point out the dissimilarity of the cases, and show the result 
to which such analogies would lead, if we allowed them to 
form the foundation of our judgment. 

REFERENCES. 

Probable evidence — Stewart, vol. ii., chap. 2, sec. 4 ; Locke, Book -I, 
chap. 15 ; Abercrombie, Part 2, sec. 3. 

Induction — Reid, chap. 6, sec. 24; Stewart, vol. ii., chap. 4, sec. If 
Cousin, chap. 9. 

Analogy — Reid's Inquiry, Essay 1, chap. 4; Stewart, vol. ii., chap. 2, 
sec. 4, chap. 4, sec. 4 ; Locke, Book 5, chap. 16, sec. 12; Abercrombie, 
Part 3, sec. 4. 

Herschel's Discourse on the Study of Natural Philosophy. 

Remarks on Analogical Reasoning in Whately's Rhetoric. 

Bacon's Novum Orgauon. 



SECTION V. — ON THE IMPROVEMENT OF THE REASONING 
POWERS. 

It is appropriate to close this chapter with a few sugges- 
tions on the manner of improving the reasoning powers. 

If the remarks in the preceding pages are correct, it will 
appear that the process which we employ in reasoning is, in 
all cases, essentially the same. Our object is to show such 
a relation between the known and the unknown, that, if one 
be true, the other is equally true ; or, if one be only prob- 
ible, the other is equally probable. If our premises are 
lenied, we proceed to show their relation to something bet- 
ter known and more universally admitted, and thus fall 
back, step by step, until we rest upon those elementary 
kruths which are given us in the constitution of the human 



IMPROVEMENT OF REASONING. 341 

intellect. From these, in the first place, all our knowledge 
proceeds. 

The manner in which we accomplish this is bj syllogism. 
We show that what is true of a class is true of every indi- 
vidual under that class By making it evident that indi- 
viduals or species are included under classes to which they 
were not supposed to belong, or that a predicate can be 
affirmed of a subject which could not have been affirmed of 
it before, new knowledge is evolved, and the domain of 
science is enlarged. 

To proceed in this manner is, I suppose, the instinct of 
our nature. A human being begins to reason almost as 
Boon as he begins to think ; and were he incapable of 
reasoning, that is, of inferring a conclusion from premises, 
we should at once perceive that he was destitute of a ra- 
tional soul, or deficient in an important element of our in- 
tellectual nature. Logicians unfold the process and develop 
the laws by which reasoning is performed, and thus enable 
us the better to distinguish between valid arguments and 
sophisms. To be able to do this is of great utility in the 
work of mental cultivation. We thus are rendered capable 
of determining whether our reasonings are, or are not, in 
accordance with the laws of the human mind. When this 
attainment has been made, we can rely with confidence upon 
the decisions of our own understanding. This is an impor- 
tant condition of all intellectual progress. We can never 
proceed boldly in the work of investigation, until we can 
say, with Sir Isaac Newton, " When I see a thing to be 
true, I know it is true." 

If, then, we w r ould cultivate our reasoning power with 
success, it is important to understand the nature of the 
human mind, and especially the process by which it estab- 
lishes truth by reasoning. The first of these is treated of 
in works on intellectual philosophy This, however, is not 
29* 



842 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 

alone suf^ient for our purpose The whole subject of 
reasonin/ f in all its ramifications, is unfolded in the science 
of logi' . By a diligent study of this science, our acute- 
ness * all be greatly sharpened, and, what is probably of 
greater consequence, the mind not only becomes accustomed 
to all the forms of reasoning, but learns instinctively to 
reject every conclusion not warranted by logical principles. 

I lately met with the following curious illustration of 
file utility of the study of logic in cultivating the power 
)f the mind : 

" The Asiatic Journal, 1827, records the following 
instance of acuteness in a young brahmin. After the 
introduction of juries into Ceylon, a wealthy brahmin, 
whose unpopular character had rendered him obnoxious to 
many, was accused of murdering his nephew, and put upon 
trial. He chose a jury of his own caste ; but so strong was 
the evidence against him, that twelve out of thirteen of the 
jury were thoroughly convinced of his guilt. The dissen- 
tient juror, a young brahmin of Camisseram, stood up, de- 
clared his conviction that the prisoner was the victim of a 
conspiracy, and desired that all the witnesses should be 
/ecalled. He examined them with extraordinary dexterity 
and acuteness, and succeeded in extorting from them such 
proofs of their perjury, that the jury, instead of consigning 
the prisoner to an ignominious death, pronounced him inno- 
cent. The affair made much noise in the island, and the 
chief justice, Sir Alexander Johnston, sent for the juror who 
had 30 distinguished himself, and complimented him on the 
talents he had displayed. The brahmin attributed his skill 
to the study of a book which he called ' The Strengthener 
of the Mind.' He had obtained it from Persia, and had 
translated it from the Sanscrit, into which it had been ren- 
dered from the Persian. Sir Alexander Johnston express- 
ing a curiosity to see the book, the brahmin brought a Tamil 



IMPROVEMENT OF REASONING. 843 

manuscript, on palm leases, which Sir Alexander found, to 
his infinite surprise, to be the ' Dialectics of Aristotle.' " I 
regret that I am not able to verify this anecdote by a refer- 
ence to the original work. I give it as I found it in a 
periodical on education. 

The study of rules and the comprehension of priLciple.i 
will, however, be of very little value, unless our knowledge, 
as we have before recommended, be reduced to practice. 
By the habitual practice of earnest investigation, without 
any knowledge of the rules of logic, a man will become an 
able reasoner ; while, without this practice, no matter what 
be his understanding of the rules, he will never acquire the 
power of convincing others. 

2. I, therefore, remark that the power of ratiocination 
may be improved by the study of works of a syllogistic 
character. Among these, it is common to assign the first 
place to the pure mathematics. A geometrical demonstra- 
tion is composed of a succession of pure syllogisms, free 
from any admixture of contingent truth, and receiving as 
premises only what every human mind must necessarily 
admit. The appeal is made exclusively to the understand- 
ing ; the conceptions are definite and precise, and the con- 
clusions follow from their own intuitive evidence. This, 
than, would seem to present the simplest and purest exercise 
of the reasoning power. For this cause, the mathematics 
have always formed an important branch of a liberal educa- 
tion. They give exercise to the reasoning power, and they 
may be pursued at an early period of life, when other 
reasoning could not be so easily comprehended. 

On the use of the mathematics for the purpose of intel- 
lectual cultivation, however, the highest authorities on the 
Bubject of education differ. Sir W. Hamilton * contends, 

* On the Study of the Mathematics as an Exercise of the Mind.— DiaOOl 
iions on Philosophy, etc. London, lboli : pp. 1M>G — 327. 



344 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 

with great power and exuberance of learning, that theyare t 
of all intellectual pursuits, the least adapted to produce the 
effect so commonly ascribed to them. It must be admitted 
that they discuss the relations of nothing but quantity, and 
the simplest of these relations ; and that, the matter of which 
they treat, and the mode, in which they treat it, are entirely 
unlike those which must be employed in the affairs of life 
and the investigations of the other sciences. Whoever will 
read this very able discussion will at least be convinced 
that the ordinary opinion on the universal adaptedness of the 
mathematics to mental discipline requires a thorough reex- 
amination. It is also a duty manifestly imposed upon 
teachers to consider this question with a mind unbiased by 
preconceived opinions, and observe carefully the effect of 
this study on the reasoning powers of their pupils. In all 
our institutions of learning we require that every candidate 
for a literary degree shall devote a considerable portion of 
his time to the mathematics, not for any practical purpose, 
but purely as a means of special intellectual culture. It 
surely cannot be inappropriate to inquire whether it actually 
produces the anticipated results. 

3. In the mathematics, our reasoning concerns nothing 
but the necessary relations of quantity, and, therefore, we 
arrive at absolute truth. A very small part of our practi- 
cal reasoning is, however, of that character. We desire to 
have the truth, not concerning abstract conceptions, but 
concerning matters of fact, or that into which fact enters as» 
a necessarv element. Hence, were we to confine our reason- 
ing tc the mathematics, it may be doubted whether we 
should increase our power of general ratiocination. It has 
been frequently remarked that persons who have addicted 
themselves exclusively to this science, have been singularly 
deficient in the reasoning power which is required in the 
several prof3Ssions, and in the ordinary affairs of life. I 



IMPROVEMENT OF REASON. 345 

have not* perceived that original ability in young men was 
at all measured by proficiency in the mathematics. Men 
of decided talent generally succeed well in anything, and, 
of course, in abstract science. The general reasoning power 
is not more closely connected with special talent for mathe- 
matics, than with special talent for philology, philosophy, 
physics, or any other branch of learning. 

It will, therefore, be necessary for us to accustom our- 
selves to reasonings concerning matters of fact, or, as it is 
called, moral reasoning. In order to do this, it will be use- 
ful to examine argumentative treatises, discourses, sermons, 
pleas at the bar, or anything which, by consecutive proof, 
professes to arrive at a conclusion. I hardly know of any 
work better adapted to such a purpose than Butler s Anal- 
ogy. It will aid us in this labor, first, carefully to read 
the work which we attempt to examine, taking notes of 
every step of the argument, and thus, in the briefest manner, 
forming for ourselves an analysis of the whole. Then, fix- 
ing our minds distinctly upon the thing to be proved, we 
should examine the general syllogism by which it is es- 
tablished, and the proofs on which the several propositions 
rest. Where an argument is abbreviated, we should supply 
the propositions that are suppressed, and the conclusions that 
arc omitted. In this manner we shall be able fully to ap- 
preciate the value of the whole argument, yielding an intel- 
ligent conviction to its proofs, and rejecting whatever is 
sophistical. A practice of this kind will have a marked 
effect upon our power of ratiocination. 

By pursuing the course here indicated, we may be enabled 
to understand, appreciate and verify, the various forms of 
argument. We thus become skilful in detecting sophistry, 
and distinguishing truth from falsehood. Tin's may be termed 
passive syllogistic power. It is an important preparation 
for further progress, but is in itself only a partial develop- 



846 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 

ment of the reasoning faculty. We need the ability, not 
only to understand and appreciate the arguments of others, 
but also to originate and construct arguments for ourselves. 
This is the great purpose which this power was intended to 
accomplish. 

4. We may improve ourselves in this respect by mathe- 
matical study. As soon as we have acquired the command 
of a few theorems in geometry, we should attempt to demon- 
strate for ourselves. Problems for this purpose should be 
provided in our text-books. It would be well if the student 
should never make use of the demonstration in the book, 
until he had exhausted his ability to originate one for him- 
self. In this manner, though he might seem at first to 
make but slow progress, his real mathematical power would 
rapidly increase. If mathematical studies are to be used aa 
a means for mental discipline, the practice of original demon- 
stration must be invaluable. Were it more frequently 
adopted, I have no doubt that it would add materially to 
vigor and alertness of mind. In this respect, algebraical 
problems possess a peculiar advantage. I know of no ex- 
ercise that calls into more active use the power of grasping 
firmly a particular conception, and tracing it out unchanged 
through various and complicated relations, than the effort to 
form a difficult algebraical equation. 

5. If we would educate our reasoning powers, we must 
pursue the same course in subjects not mathematical. We 
must learn to form arguments for ourselves on all matters 
of investigation that come under our notice. When a doubt- 
ful question arises, instead of avoiding it, we should earnestly 
bend ourselves to the labor of solving it. We should be in 
the habit of forming logical plans of thought on every sub- 
ject of study. Whether we write or speak, we should always 
have an end in view, towards which every thought tends by a 
natural succession, and a logical arrangement. If a lawyer 



IMPROVEMENT 0$ REASON. 347 

toakea a plea, he should not be satisfied with merely pre- 
senting a variety of considerations that have a bearing on 
the subject ; his argument should be direct and conclusive. 
If a preacher construct a discourse, he should have in view 
a particular moral condition to which he desires to lead hi* 
audience, and every paragraph and every sentence should 
tend to lead them to this condition. 

If, however, we desire to cultivate our intellect to the 
best advantage, two cautions are here to be observed. Tho 
first respects reliance on authority. Many men, when a 
proposition is to be proved, spend their time in hunting up 
authorities, and collecting the opinions of others. By these 
they expect men to be convinced, without once asking the 
question whether they are convinced themselves. I would 
by no means speak lightly of the learning of the past, or 
of the opinions of eminent men ; but it must still be apparent 
that an opinion, whether of an ancient or a contemporary- 
is worth just as much as the reason on which it is founded, 
No matter how high the authority, we should never attempt 
to convince another by an argument the force of which wo 
have not ourselves acknowledged: We may embarrass and 
confound men by an array of learned authorities, but we 
shall rarely convince them unless we have first convinced 
ourselves. * 

But it is hardly enough that we ourselves be convinced 
by the teaching of others. We should, if possible, convince 
ourselves by reasons drawn from the fountain of our own 
reflections. A student who desires to develop fully his own 
powers, must make his own mind his chief reliance in all 
his intellectual labor. If he cultivate this habit, he will 
frequently find it less laborious to think out an argument 
for himself than to seek for it in books. A man endowed 
with a ready memory and sufficient command of language, 
may, without any act've use of his reasoning powers, speak 



34£ INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY 

or write upon a subject with fluency and elegance. Such 
men in youth create great expectation, but when the hou* 
arrives for decided intellectual trial, they fail. On the 
other hand, he who thinks for himself and relies on his own 
resources, may at first seem slow of apprehension and want- 
ing in richness of thought, but his powers are invigorated 
by every effort. The exercise of his faculties yields con- 
tinually a richer and more abundant product, and thus con- 
firms his confidence in his own intellectual power. We 
should, therefore, resolve in the beginning that whatever we 
produce shall be, as far as possible, our own ; at least, that 
it shall have passed through the processes of our own think- 
ing, and thus become assimilated with the working of ( ur 
own intellect. No habit is so fatal as plagiarism to all 
vigor of the understanding. It inevitably induces indolence, 
mental imbecility, and utter inability to carry on a train 
of original thought. 

6. In order to improve the reasoning powers, it is im- 
portant that we always labor for truth. Many persons, in 
order to acquire skill in debate, are in the habit of defend- 
ing the true or false indiscriminately, believing that they 
can cultivate their own understanding by misleading the 
understanding of others. A man may learn thus to embar- 
rass and confound an antagonist, but he does it at great 
sacrifice. By earnestly seeking for truth, and rejecting all 
sophistry, the mind acquires a tendency to move in the right 
direction. Chemists speak much of the affinities of various 
substances for each other. There is a natural affinity in 
the human mind for truth, and this affinity is strengthened 
by seeking for it with an honest and earnest purpose. If 
we in our investigations inquire for nothing but truth, it 
Bpontaneously reveals itself to us. The whole history of 
philosophical discovery illustrates this remark. Hence 
nothing can be more unwise than to destrov the original 



IMPROVEMENT OF REASON. 849 

delicacy of h? faculty of reason by employing it indis- 
criminately in the support of truth or falsehood. We may 
thus gain the praise of acuteness or readiness in debate ; 
but we lose what is of incomparably greater consequence, 
the instinctive love of truth, and the delicate discrimina- 
tion between truth and error. 

And, lastly; it is impossible for us to reason well, or 
so to reason as to increase the sum of human knowledge, 
without the possession of large and accurate knowledge. 
Reasoning is the process by which we pass from the 
known to the unknown. The known, then, lies at the 
foundation of our process. Unless there be something 
known, we cannot begin to reason ; and the greater the 
amount of our knowledge, the larger is the material 
with which we labor. The more exact our knowledge is, 
the more successfully can we use it in the discovery of 
truth. 

A^e men, of marked independence of mind, and strong 
tendency for investigation, by failing to know what other 
men have discovered, are liable to waste their energies in 
search of that which has been already discovered. Hence, 
after arriving at valuable truth, they find themselves 
in the rear of their age. Though the cases are rare, 
able men sometimes fall into this error. If this be the 
case with men of unusual endowments, how much more 
does it deserve the attention of those who can boast of 
no extraordinary talent ! He who would enlarge the field 
of human knowledge, must stand upon the limits of the 
known, before he can expect to enter the field of the 
Unknown. 

REFERENCES. 

Cultivation of the reasoning faculties — Abcrcrombic, Part 3, section i 
Mathematicians not good re.isoners — Aberorombie, Part 3, section £ 

30 



350 INTELLECTUAL PHI. OSOPHY. 

Difference between sound judgment and ingenious disputation — Abeiv 
crombie, Part 3, section 4. 

Power of reasoning depends on extent of knowledge — Abercrombie, 
Part 3, section 4. 

Use of authorities — Locke, Book 4, chap. 20, section 17. 

Advantage of clearness and exactitude of knowledge — Locke, Book 4, 
ehap. 12, Motion 14, 



CHAPTER VII 

IMAGINATION. 



SECTION I. — THE NATURE OF THIS FACULTY, 

The next faculty of which we propose to treat is tha 
Imagination- It is the power by which, from simple con» 
eeptions already existing in the mind, we form complex 
wholes or images. Thus, the painter, selecting several beau- 
tiful views from various landscapes which he has observed, 
forms them into a single picture. The novelist unites the 
elements of several characters which he has observed in the 
conception of his hero. 

It is manifest that some form of abstraction must, by 
necessity, precede the exercise of imagination. Were wo 
not able to analyze the concrete, and contemplate its several 
parts separate from each other, we could never unite them 
at will, so as to form an original image. The parts must 
be mentally severed before they can be reunited in a new 
conception. It is this power of reuniting the several 
elements of a conception at will, that is, properly, imagina- 
tion. Imagination may then be designated as the power of 
combination. 

There is, however, a difference in the manner in which 
the power of combination receives and modifies the materials 
derived from abstraction. In treating of abstraction I 
attempted to show that it included throe acts; first, aualy- 



852 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 

Bis, by which the qualities of a concrete object are separated 
from each other ; second, generalization, by which these 
simple elements of an individual become a general abstract 1 
idea ; and, third, combination, by which these last are united 
in a complex conception, representing not an individual 
but a class. The act by which we form classes, may, 
perhaps, more properly be called conception than imagina- 
tion. 

The act of imagination proper, differs from that act by 
which we form classes. In the first place, the mode of 
abstraction in the two cases is unlike. In forming concep- 
tions of classes we first separate qualities from each other. 
In collecting the elements for a picture in the imagination, 
we separate not qualities so much as parts. Again ; before 
we can proceed to form classes, we must first generalize our 
individual abstractions, and thus form general abstract ideas. 
In imagination proper we do not generalize, but at once 
unite the ideas of individual parts which we have previously 
separated from each other. In the third place, the result 
is dissimilar. In the one case we form a notion of a class, 
meaning no particular individual ; in the other, we form a 
notion of an individual, which is the more perfect in pro- 
portion to its distinct individuality. 

The difference between these cases may be illustrated by 
a familiar example. Suppose that a physiologist were 
attempting to form a scientific conception of an animal, say, 
for instance, of a horse. He would examine the first speci- 
men with all the accuracy in his power, taking note 
Bpecially of all the qualities of its external appearance and 
internal structure. He would, in the second place, examine 
other specimens, taking note of each particular quality as 
before. These qualities would then not belong to one speci- 
men, but to them all, or would become general abstract 
ideas, lie would next distinguish those that were constant 



IMAGINATION 8U 

from those which were variable, uniting the constant into 
ft single conception, and rejecting the others as valueless. 
This conception thus formed would represent the class, and 
would correspond to the word horse, whenever he or other 
physiologists used it. 

But, were an artist required to paint the charger of a com- 
mander-in-chief on a battle-field, he would proceed in a very 
different manner. Observing several horses, he would per- 
ceive one remarkable for the beauty of its head. The body 
of another, and the neck of a third are distinguished for 
elegance of form and symmetry of proportions. Without 
any act of generalization, he would unite such of these sev- 
eral parts as he chose into one image, which he would 
transfer to the canvas. This picture would not be the 
representation of a class, but of an individual. The object 
of the painter would be, not to form an image which should 
stand for all horses, but a picture of a more beautiful horse 
than had ever existed, thus making this representation to 
stand out by itself, distinguished from every other that had 
ever been conceived. 

Imagination proper is, therefore, the power of forming 
not general conceptions, designating classes, but particular 
images representing individuals. It is the power by which 
we form pictures in the mind, of some object or event. 
Hence, it would seem that those writers have erred who 
state that this act of the mind closely resembles the process 
of reasoning. The two acts are really remarkably unlike. 
The materials used in the reasoning process are always 
propositions, that is, affirmations respecting genera and 
species. The imagination, on the contrary, employs con- 
ceptions of separate parts, which it combines into an indi- 
vidual whole. The process which they employ is dissimilar , 
the one forming syllogisms, the other uniting elements. The 
result at which they arrive is different The one ends iu 
30* 



854 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 

a proposition affirming a predicate of a subject; /he other snd* 
in a picture affirming nothing. The one asserts a tiuth, 
the other presents a conception. That the most gifted men 
are frequently endowed with both of these powers in a high 
decree, and that the possession of both is necessary to great 
intellectual efforts, is granted; but this no more proves 
them to be either identical or similar, than the necessity of 
reason and memory to intellectual effort proves these faculties 
identical. 

If we examine the several acts of this faculty, we may, 
I think, observe a difference between them. We have the 
power to originate images or pictures for ourselves, and we 
have the power to form them as they are presented to us in 
language. The former may be called active, and the latter 
passive imagination. The active I believe always includes 
the passive power, but the passive does not always include 
the active. Thus we frequently observe persons, who delight 
in poetry and romance, who are utterly incapable of creat- 
ing .a scene or composing a stanza. They can fcfrm the pic- 
tures dictated by language, but are destitute of the power 
of original combination. Even this secondary and inferior 
form of imagination is possessed in different degrees. Every 
one in the habit of giving instruction, especially when de- 
scription is necessary, must have been convinced of the great 
difference of individuals in this respect. Some persons 
create a picture for themselves as soon as it is presented in 
language. Others form it with difficulty, after repeated 
trials ; and at last we are uncertain whether the conception 
in our own mind is the same as that awakened in the mind 
of another. It is on this power, chiefly, that the love of 
poetry and fiction depends. Hence, we frequently find per- 
Bons of good sense and strong judgment, who never manifest 
any taste for imaginative writing. This type of character 
is most frequently observed in those who have not com* 



IMAGINATION. 855 

menced their education until late in life. The imagination 
is most active in youth, and if it remain undeveloped until 
the period of youth be past, it rarely attains its full power 
or its natural proportions. 

The active power )f imagining is bestowed with still 
greater diversity. Some men are poets by nature. Hence 
the maxim, poeta nascitur non Jit, — ; a poet is formed by 
nature, not by education. Men endowed with a creative 
imagination are continually perceiving analogies, forming 
comparisons, and originating scenes of beauty or grandeur, 
out of all that they observe and all that they remember. 
Johnson was sitting one evening by the side of a table, on 
which two candles were burning. The conversation turned 
on Thomson. "Thomson," said he, "could not see 
those two candles without forming a poetical image out of 
them." On the other hand, we are told of a celebrated 
mathematician, who, after reading the Paradise Lost, laid 
down the book in disgust, with the significant question, 
"What does it prove ? " In the one case, the imagination 
had been exclusively cultivated ; in the other, the reasoning 
power. The one had been accustomed to form pictures, the 
other demonstrations. Neither could have been interested 
in the labors of the other. Both would probably have 
derived advantages from a more generous and universal cul- 
tivation of their intellectual powers. 

This distinction leads us to observe a mistake, frequently 
made, respecting the mode of cultivating the imagination. 
Young persons sometimes spend their time in reading works 
i)f fiction, and tell us that their object is to improve this 
power of the mind. This kind of reading produces an effect, 
but not the effect intended. It improves nothing but tlio 
passive power of the imagination ; that is, it enables as tho 
more readily to conceive of scenes presented to us by Ian 
guage. It cannot enable us to create scenes for ourselves 



S56 INTELLECTUAL PHILuSOHIY. 

If this passive imaginative power is exclusively cultivated, 
it is even liabl 5 to paralyze the power of creation by con- 
demning it to perpetual inaction. Sir Walter Scott was, 
from boyhood, a vast reader of romances, but he was also 
an indefatigable story-teller, and would detain his school- 
fellows, by the half-day together, with fictions of his own 
creation, wrought out on the instant from the stores of his 
inexhaustible fancy. 

Again ; a distinction may be observed in the nature of the 
active power of the imagination. Some men instinctively 
employ this faculty in the creation of images of beauty or 
sublimity. They address themselves to the taste, and their 
object is merely to please. Such men are by nature poets 
Whatever they see or hear becomes at once materials for the 
exercise of the fancy. Analogies between the seen and the 
unseen, the relations of matter and the relations of mind, 
the objective and the subjective, are continually revealing 
themselves, and thus giving birth to comparisons, meta- 
phors, similes and pictures. No one can read the poetry of 
Milton, Shakspeare, Burns, Cowper and Thomson, with- 
out observing this wonderful power of creating at will 
images of transcendent loveliness, from either the lowliest 
]>r the loftiest object that the eye rests upon. 

But there is another and a smaller class of persons, richly 
endowed with imagination, in whom this faculty acts on 
somewhat different principles, and tends to a very different 
result. The materials which they employ are not scenes, 
or images of individual beauty, but laws of nature. They 
address not the taste, but the reason. Their object is not 
to please, but to instruct. The result at which they arrive 
is not a picture that can be painted on canvas, but a complex 
eonception of truth united in one idea, and tending to a par- 
ticular conclusion. Such men no sooner observe a phenome 
uon than they summon from the whole field of their knowledge 



POETIC IMAGINATION. 6o7 

every law that could relate to this particular case, and se- 
lect and combine into one conception such of these laws as 
will reasonably account for the change. Most men, when 
they observe a phenomenon, know that it must have a cause, 
but never give themselves the trouble to seek for it. Others 
are perpetually searching after causes, but seem condemned 
to search forever in the wrong direction. Men who aro 
preeminently gifted are generally endowed with this power 
of combination in a remarkable degree. Such were Ar- 
chimedes, Plato and Aristotle, among the ancients, and 
among the moderns, Newton, Sir H. Davy, Cuvier, and 
many of the illustrious men yet spared to us. It has 
appeared to me that the study of chemistry, when pursued 
into the regions of original investigation, has a strong ten- 
dency to cultivate the highest exercise of this endowment. 

As these two forms of the imagination are of special 
interest, and are to a considerable degree dissimilar, we shall 
in the following remarks consider them separately. 



SECTION II. — POETIC IMAGINATION. 

Imagination, as we have said, is the power of combina- 
tion. In poetic imagination, its elements are not general 
abstract ideas, but rather notions of the several parts of 
different wholes, which may be united at will. The pic- 
tures of the imagination are not representations of classes, 
but are individual images which the mind forms for itself 
from the conceptions which it has already treasured up. 

Thus, when a painter would delineate on canvas an ideal 
landscape, he has recourse to the various elements of pic- 
turesque beauty which are present in his recollection. He 
uas been in the habit of observing the aspects of nature in 
all their infinite variety Tree and shrub river and stream- 



358 I^TELIECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 

let, meadow and hill-side, sunlight and shadow, at mornings 
noon and evening, are all vividly impressed upon his recol- 
lection. He forms, at first, a general conception of the picture 
which he is about to execute. He forms, perhaps, another 
and another, until the prominent features of his design are 
determined upon. When the elements of his combination 
are such as he approves, he proceeds to fill up the outline 
with such of the accessories as will best harmonize with his 
subject. When his conception is thus matured, he proceeds 
to give it form and coloring. The idea which at first ex- 
isted in his own mind alone, now begins to appear in all the 
loveliness of a finished picture. It is said that Cole, the 
distinguished American landscape painter, never drew a line 
upon canvas until he had not only matured the whole scene in 
his mind, but even written out the description in full. From 
this written delineation he rarely made any variation when 
he transferred his conception to canvas. The case is the 
same in any other of the fine arts. One of the most im- 
pressive ideas that crowds upon the spectator, as he, for the 
first time, looks upon the interior of a gothic cathedral, is, 
that all this magnificence of beauty, even to its minute 
details, must have existed in the mind of the architect be- 
fore the first stone of the mighty fabric was laid. It al 1 
appears like a gorgeous epic, — an Iliad, or a Paradise Lost, 
in stone. 

In the preceding cases our design is simple. It is 
merely to present a conception which shall awaken the 
emotion either of beauty or sublimity in the minds of our 
fellow-men. Our labor is, in the first place, purely concep- 
tual. It consists in creating in our own minds a picture. 
Suppose this to have been done ; the next step is to give to 
this conception some external expression, by which we shall 
transfer to the minds of vther men the very image which 
we have created in our own. Hence we see that two ele- 



POETIC IMAGINATION. 359 

dents must be tombined in the character of an eminent 
artist. First, he must be endowed with a rich and vigorous 
imagination, by which he may form beautiful and striking 
conceptions ; and, secondly, he must be able to realize his 
conceptions in some material form, so that they may create 
their proper impression upon the minds of others. Artie is 
may fail from the want of either of these elements. If a 
man be ever so highly gifted with imagination, but be de- 
ficient in power of execution, unable to establish any medium 
of communication between himself and other men, he will 
be forever exposed to mortifying failure. He may speak or 
lecture well on his art. but he can never become a success- 
ful artist. Such was apparently the case with Haydon. On 
the other hand, when imagination is wanting, the prac- 
titioner may be a skilful copyist ; if a painter, he may draw 
with accuracy, or represent with fidelity, whatever he sees ; 
but he can never attain to the highest conception of art. 

The manner in which these two processes are united in 
art is various. Sometimes, as I have before remarked, the 
conception is elaborated and perfected in the mind, before it 
receives any external expression. Gray's Elegy and Burns' 
"Bruce's Address to his Soldiers," are said to have been 
completed before a word was written. In other cases, 
the rough draft is first committed to canvas, or written out 
in words, and this is elaborated and modified, until it haa 
attained to all the perfection of which the author is capable 
Milton was for many years engaged in the plan of Paradise 
Lost, and there now exist in the Library of Trinity College, 
Cambridge, his various drafts, approaching nearer to tho 
plan which he finally adopted. Which of these modes is 
to be preferred must be left to the mental habits of the 
artist. As a general rule, however, it may be remarked 
that the more thoroughly any work is excogitated in the bo- 



360 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 

ginning, the less will be the labor of composition and the 
more marked and observable the symmetry of the whole. 

But suppose that this first intellectual labor has been 
accomplished, and a conception has been formed which we 
desire to present to our fellow-men. What shape shall 
this expression assume 1 The answer to this question will 
iepend upon the endowments special to the individual 

If this conception has been formed in a mind endowed 
simply with the power of language, it will be expressed in 
prose. 4 

Suppose, that, in addition to the power of language, an artist 
possess also an ear for rhythm, he will express it in poetry. 

If, on the other hand, he be endowed w T ith the power of 
delineating form, he will execute his conception in marble 
or stone, and become a sculptor or an architect. 

If he have the power of expression, not only in form, but 
also in color, he will be a painter. 

Thus, the fountain from which all the fine arts take their 
rise is precisely the same. It is the power of creating in 
our ow T n minds images of beauty or sublimity. Hence 
flow the various forms of art in the channels marked out by 
our individual endowments. It is rare that an individual ia 
gifted with more than one of these modes" of expression, 
though, in highly favored instances, they are occasionally 
combined. Michael Angelo was equally distinguished in 
sculpture, painting and architecture; and was, besides, no 
mean poet. Washington Allston was both a painter and a 
poet. Such gifts are, however, uncommon, and success in 
a single department may well satisfy the ambition of any 
artist. 

We see, then, the reason of the rule in rhetoric, that, in 
order to test the correctness of a metaphor, we should con- 
ceive of it as represented on canvas. We here recognizo 
the principle that the spiritual part of the work is the same 



POETIC IMAGINATION. 361 

m both modes of expression; and we present it to the decis- 
ion of taste, in any manner that will best display its form 
and proportions. Thus, Horace correctly remarks, 

" Pictoribus atque poetis, 
Quidlibet audendi semper fuit sequa potestas." 

Hence a conception expressed in any one of the fine art3 
is readily transferred to the other. A group in painting is 
easily rendered in marble. Either of these also furnishes 
subjects for poetry, while the conceptions of Shakspeare, 
Milton, Scott and Bunyan, have supplied inexhaustible ma- 
terials for the painter and engraver. 

The relation of poetic imagination to taste is easily ex- 
plained. By the imagination we create pictures in the 
recesses of our own consciousness. By poetry, painting, 
sculpture, and the other fine arts, we give to our concep- 
tions an outward manifestation. By this outward manifes- 
tation we transfer our own conceptions to the minds of other 
men. They, by the passive power of the imagination, form 
for themselves the image which we represent. Hence, the 
imagination in us, addresses first the imagination of others. 
But this is not its ultimate object. Its design is to please 
the taste. Unless the emotion of beauty or sublimity is 
awakened, we fail to accomplish our object. If we do not 
form an impressive manifestation of our own conception, it 
will fail to create a corresponding conception in other men. 
After the conception has been awakened, if they look upon 
it with disgust or indifference, our labor has been thrown 
away. We see, therefore, that in order to form the charac- 
ter of a finished artist, there must be combined great vigor 
of imagination, and great delicacy ot taste. The author 
must be able instinctively to determine whether his concep- 
tion is really beautiful, that is, whether it will give pleas- 
ure to the universal mind of man. 
31 



362 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 

When taste is deficient and the imagination vigorous 4 
writer or artist will abound in conceptions ; but they will be 
puerile, mean disgusting, unnatural or misplaced ; or, what 
is perhaps more common, beauty and deformity will bo 
strangely and unaccountably mingled together. In such a 
case, the world sometimes passes them by in silence, some- 
times overwhelms them with ridicule ; or, provided the fol- 
lies and eccentricities are strongly marked, at first it gazea 
upon them with wonder, then applauds them as Griginal, 
and then consigns them to oblivion. In the words o^ 
Horace : 

" Humano capiti cervicem pictor equinam 
Jungere si veiit, et varias inducere plumas 
Undique collatis membris, ut turpiter atrura 
Desinet in piscem, mulier formosa superne, 
Spectatura admissi risum teneatis, amici 
Crediti, Pisones, isti tabulae fore librum 
Persimilem, cujus, velut aegri somnia, vanae 
Fingentur species, ut nee pes nee caput uni 
Reddatur formae." 

Ars Poetica, 1 — 9. 

It is possible, however, that the cause of the failure of 
an author, or of an artist, may be precisely the reverse. 
His taste may be too far in advance of his contemporaries. 
In this case they will derive no pleasure from his concep- 
tions, be they ever so perfect, and his works will fall dead 
from his hand, though ever so deserving of immortality. 
Painters have perished from want, the least deserving of 
whose pictures have since commanded a price which would 
have rendered the artist opulent. The manuscript of 
Paradise Lost was sold for five pounds; while, at pres- 
ent, the annual profits from the sale of his work would have 
been a fortune to the patriot-poet. The progress of taste 
may thus create a demand for a work of the imagination, 
which did not exist in the life-time of the artist or the 



POETIC IMAGINATION. 863 

author. Homer is said to have begged his bread while 
living ; although, centuries after his death, seven of the 
most illustrious cities contended for the honor of having 
been his birth-place. 

I have thus far treated of imagination as the power by 
which we foru pictures at will. The object here is simple. 
The combinations thus formed address themselves to the 
taste. If the} r give us pleasure nothing more is demanded, 
and our object has been attained. If the painter execute a 
beautiful picture, or the sculptor a beautiful statue, we ask 
for nothing more. So, if the novelist or the descriptive 
poet present us with a succession of pleasing or exciting 
scenes, they may be entirely successful. More commonly, 
however, in writing, some other design is intermingled w r ith 
this. Thus, when in earnest composition, we desire to 
lead the mind of the reader to a given result, some moral or 
intellectual idea, by the association of resemblance or con- 
trast, suggests an event or object in nature or art to which 
it is analogous. We turn aside and form an image of the 
Buggested idea. Here, however, our object is two-fold. To 
introduce an image merely because it was beautiful, might 
distract attention from the proper course of thought, and 
thus interfere with our principal design. Besides being 
beautiful, the image must illustrate and enforce the idea 
which suggested it. When both of these objects are accom- 
plished, the great end of this form of imagination is attained, 
and to attain it is one of the most difficult achievements in 
literary labor. Those comparisons and metaphors which 
spring so spontaneously from the subject, that it appears 
impossible to have given utterance to the thought in any 
other manner, while they irradiate it with brilliant and un- 
expected light, have commonly been the result of intense 
labor, and are the pr *luct of the most exquisite artistic 
skill. 



36* INTELLECTUAL PBILOSOPHT. 

It may serve to illustrate this use of the imagination if 
we present a few examples. Moore, a writer of exuberant 
fancy, has occasion to allude to the fact, that the affections, 
by their nature, demand an object on which they may lean, 
and which they strive to appropriate to themselves. This 
idea naturally suggests the image of a vine, which can only 
be sustained by entwining itself around a support. This 
illustration, however, has been so often employed, that it 
has become trite. The poet looking more narrowly upon 
the object, observed that it clung to its support by means 
of a tendril. Hence he elaborates the following beau- 
tiful comparison : 

" The heart, like a tendril, accustomed to cling, 
Let it grow where it will, cannot flourish alone, 
But will lean to the loveliest nearest thing 

It can twine with itself and make closer its own." 

Burke visited Versailles very soon after the marri *ge of 
Marie Antoinette. He saw what seemed the commencement 
of a brilliant and happy career, herself the most remarkable 
object in the court which she adorned. When, in his re- 
marks on the French revolution, he had occasion to refer to 
this event, her position suggested to his rich and poetic im- 
agination the appearance of the morning star. His mind 
turned at once towards the beautiful image, and he says, 
"It is now sixteen or seventeen years since I saw the queen 
of France, then the dauphiness, at Versailles ; and surely 
never lighted on this orb, which she hardly seemed to touch, 
a more delightful vision. I saw her just above the horizon, 
decorating and cheering the elevated sphere she just began 
to move in, glittering like the morning star, full of life, and 
■plendor, and joy." 

Thus Longinus, when he is comparing the eloquence of 
Demosthenes and Cicero, turns to nature for analogies. 



POETIC IMAGINATION. 865 

By two very striking images he gives us an impression of 
the peculiar character of each, beyond the power of an} 
mere description. He compares the one to the thunderbolt, 
which by a single stroke, scatters in splinters the giant oak. 
leaving a second stroke superfluous ; the other to a con- 
flagration in a forest, spreading on every side irresistible 
destruction, furnishing for itself the material which it con- 
sumes, and gaining breadth and intensity at every step of 
its progress. 

In these cases a two-fold object is accomplished. In the 
first place a new and beautiful image is introduced, to which 
the mind recurs with pleasure ; and, secondly, the original 
idea is rendered vastly more definite and impressive. In 
this manner we render taste and imagination subservient to 
reason. We convince men, and make them pleased to be 
convinced, and thus rarely fail of success. 

In the above instances it will be perceived that a visible 
image is presented to the mind, numerically distinct from 
the idea to which it owes its origin. In many cases, how- 
ever, this is not done. The image is only casually and for 
a moment present to the mind of the writer, yet its presence 
suggests the use of words which belong rather to it than to 
the principal thought. Thus, he who resists successfully a 
host of enemies, naturally suggests the idea of a man making 
headway against a violent stream. We do not, however, 
introduce the image, but only use terms suggested by it, and 
say, he stemmed the torrent of opposition. When we think 
of the origin of our nation, its struggles with the aborigines, 
its exposure for years to universal destruction, we are natu- 
rally led to think of a tree just planted, which any hand 
may pluck up; or of childhood, which, in its helplessness, 
any assailant may overcome. We do not express the image 
in full, but its presence renders it almost impossible for ua 
to speak upon the subject without employing the terma,-- 
81* 



&66 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 

" the germ of a nation," " the planting of a people," " the 
infancy of the republic," etc. So, when we reflect upon 
the progress of a great truth, first discovered by a retired 
philosopher, then modestly brought to the notice of the world, 
receiving testimony from kindred sciences, until, gaining 
Strength at every step, it is universally acknowledged, we 
naturally think of a spring, which, rising in the recesses 
of the mountains, receives tributaries on every side, until it 
gradually spreads out into a mighty river. Hence, we 
speak of "ascending to the fountain head of knowledge," 
of " the carrent of opinions," of "a flood of evidence," and 
the like. Instances of this kind are found in abundance in 
the books on rhetoric. 

There is another relation, somewhat different from the 
above, in which the imagination stands to the art of per- 
suasion. By the imagination we form pictures of objects, 
scenes, events, characters, and the like. It is a well- 
known fact that our emotions are excited as truly by a con- 
ception as by the reality. We are moved by the incidents 
of a romance, we love one fictitious character and hate 
another, we grieve over the distresses of virtue, we rejoice in 
the punishment of crime, just as though what we read were 
veritable narrative. And this effect is produced by the con- 
ceptions themselves, for our emotions are not quelled even by 
the reflection that all this is fiction. In this manner, the 
imagination may be made to address our domestic affections, 
our passions, — worthy or unworthy, — our conscience, or our 
piety. Thus, the inimitable parables of our Saviour convey 
the most sublime and touching lessons of universal truth. 
The allegory of Bunyan overflows with religious instruction, 
and exquisite moral sentiment. Homer has instilled into 
the bosom of millions besides Alexander, the love of war, 
and the inextinguishable thirst for glory. We thus per- 
ceive that the passions ani sentiments of mankind, eithei 



POETIC IMAGINATION. 367 

tor good or for evil, are greatly under the power of the 
imagination. 

The manner in which the orator avails himself of this 
principle is the following. In the attempt to convince men 
our first appeal is to their reason. We construct a train of 
argument which proves our propositions to be true, and we 
present such motives as should in luce them to act in the 
manner we desire. If we are deeply in earnest ourselves, 
our earnestness will not fail to call into exercise every 
power of the mind. Notions of things material and imma- 
terial, visible and invisible, related to our subject by all the 
laws of objective or subjective association, will with various 
degrees of distinctness rise before us. These various mate- 
rials the orator uses in such manner as he perceives best 
adapted to accomplish his purpose. In the words of Shak- 
epeare, 

" The poet's eye, in a fine frenzy rolling, 
Doth glance from heaven to earth, from earth to heaven ; 
And, as imagination bodies forth 
The forms of things unknown, the poet's pen 
Turns them to shape, and gives to airy nothings 
A local habitation and a name." 

Mid-summer Night's Dream. 

When an image, a picture, or an event, presents itself to 
the imagination of the orator, better adapted to excite the 
emotion which he wishes to arouse than the naked statement 
of his argument, he spreads this picture before the mind 
with all the graphic power of which he is capable. We are, 
as I have said, affected by conceptions as truly as by reality. 
The emotion excited by the accessory is readily transferred 
to the principal idea, and thus we are sunk in sadness, 
melted into compassion, aroused to indignation, or inflamed 
to patriotism, as we listen to the earnest appeals of hnpas- 
lioued eloquence. It is by this combination of the reasoning 



868 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 

power with the imagination, that the greatest triumphs of 
the art of persuasion have been accomplished. 

Sometimes the imagination personifies an abstract princi- 
ple, and, 'n vesting it with every element of grandeur and 
sublimity, awakens emotion which is at once transferred to 
the principle itself. Curran, in his defence of Rowan, — ■ 
i. 7 ho had been indicted for the publication of a paper in which 
he pleaded for universal emancipation, — affirms that hig 
client had claimed nothing more than was the birthright of 
every Englishman, and that universal emancipation is an 
essential element of the British Constitution. His imagina- 
tion, fired with so noble a theme, at once conceives of uni- 
versal emancipation as the genius presiding over British 
soil, and he proceeds to clothe this being with every attri- 
bute of majesty, thus transferring to the principle which he 
defends, the sublime emotions which his conception has in- 
spired. u I speak in the spirit of British law, which makes 
liberty commensurate with and inseparable from the British 
soil, which proclaims even to the stranger and the sojourner, 
the moment he sets his foot on British earth, that the soil 
on which he treads is holy, and consecrated by the genius of 
universal emancipation. No matter in what language hi* 
doom may have been pronounced ; no matter what complex- 
ion incompatible with freedom an Indian or an African sun 
may have burned upon him ; no matter in what disastrous 
battle his liberties may have been cloven down ; no matter 
with what solemnities he may have been devoted on the altar 
of slavery, — the moment he touches the sacred soil of 
Britain, the altar and the god sink together in the dust, 
his soul walks abroad in her own majesty, his body swells 
beyond the measure of the chains that burst from around 
him, and he stands redeemed, regenerated, and disenthralled, 
by the irresistible genius of universal emancipation." The 
affect of such a conception upon a hearer is obvious. He, 



POETIC IMAGINATION. 869 

who before looked upon tha doctrine as merely a matter cf 
abstract right, now cherishes it as a sublime and most enno- 
bling sentiment, and not only justifies, but honors and ven- 
erates the man who promulgates it. 

It is obvious that the same means may be successfully 
used to arouse indignation against a person or jm opinion. 
The same great orator, wishing to discredit the testimony 
of a government witness, presents before us an image which 
can awaken no emotion but those of loathsomeness and detes- 
tation. Referring to the confinement of this person in the 
Castle before the trial, he styles him " the wretch that is buried 
a man, who lies till his heart has time to fester and rot, and 
is then dug up a witness." He asks, " Have you not seen 
him, after his resurrection from that tomb, after having been 
dug out of the region of death and corruption, make his 
appearance upon the table, the living image of life and death, 
and the supreme arbiter of both ? Have you not marked, 
when he entered, how the stormy wave of the multitude 
retired at his approach ? Have you not marked how the 
human heart bowed to the supremacy of his power, in tho 
undissembled homage of deferential horror 7 how his 
glance, like the lightning of heaven, seemed to rive the body 
of the accused and mark it for the grave, while his voice 
warned the devoted wretch of woe and death, — a death 
which no innocence can escape, no art elude, no force 
resist, no antidote prevent? There was an antidote, — 
a juror's oath ; but even that adamantine chain, which 
bound the integrity of man to the throne of eternal justice, 
is solved and melted in the breath that issues from the in- 
former's mouth. Conscience swings from her moorings, 
and the appalled and affrighted juror consults his own safety 
in the surrender of the victim." 

From such instances as these it is easy to perceive the 
manner in which the orator may make even the imagination 



B70 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 

to aid in the work of persuasion. He may bring the past> 
the present, and the future, before the mind of the hearer 
and awaken, by means of it, any train of sympathy that he 
desires. The pages of ancient and modern eloquence are 
studded with gems of this kind, illustrating the power of 
the consummate orator to wield the passions of men at his 
will, and too frequently, I must confess, to make the worse 
appeal the better reason. 



SECTION III. — ON THE IMPROVEMENT OF POETIC IMAG- 
INATION. 

Imagination, as we have before said, is the power of 
combination, — the faculty by which, out of materials 
already existing in the mind, we form new and original im- 
ages. Of course, our power of combination must be limited 
by the amount of the materials on which it may be exerted. 
Knowledge of all kinds is the treasury from which ou* 
power of combination must be supplied. The works of the 
classical poets of all languages furnish us with a great variety 
of beautiful imagery. But these poets themselves derived 
their images from nature. The same book is open to us, and 
we must study it for ourselves if we would attain to freshness 
and vigor of imaginative power. He, therefore, who would 
cultivate this faculty with success, must observe nature in 
all her infinite variety of phases, by day and by night, iu 
Bunshinc and in storm, in summer and in winter, on tho 
prairie and by the seaside, and delight himself in the boauti- 
ful and the grand wherever they may exist in every aspect 
of creation around him. Says Imlac, in Rasselas, ' ' I ranged 
mountains and deserts for images and resemblances, and 
pictured on my mind every tree of the forest and flower of 



CULTIVATION OF THE IMAGINATION. 371 

&e valley. I observed with equal care the crags of the 
rock, and the pinnacles of the palace. Sometimes I wan- 
dered along the mazes of the rivulet, and sometimes 
watched the changes of the summer cloud. To a poet noth- 
ing can be useless. Whatever is beautiful and whatever is 
dreadful must be familiar to his imagination ; he must be 
conversant with all that is awfully vast or elegantly little. 
The plants of the garden and the animals of the wood, th<s 
minerals of the earth and the meteors of the sky, must all 
concur to store his mind with inexhaustible variety ; for 
every idea is useful for the enforcement or decoration of 
moral or religious truths, and he who knows most will have 
most power of gratifying his reader with remote allusions 
and unexpected instruction." — Rasselas, chap. 10. 

The habits of those who have been most distinguished for 
richness of imagination will, I believe, confirm the truth of 
these remarks. The poetry of Homer, Shakspeare and 
Milton, is replete with images which could only have been 
derived from close observation of nature, as she presented 
herself to them in their dissimilar walks of life. But we 
may recur to more recent instances. It is recorded of the 
distinguished American, whose exquisite portraits of nature 
have rendered classic the banks of the Hudson, that he once 
mvited a friend to visit his " studies." He led him to some 
of the mountains that overlook his favorite river, and re- 
marked that he was accustomed to spend whole days, from 
sunrise to sunset, in those majestic solitudes, observing the 
never-ceasing changes wrought upon the scenery around 
him in every hour of the day, and that thus he labored to 
acquire a familiarity with every appearance of natural 
beauty. The boundless range of the imagination of Sir 
Walter Scott has been long acknowledged. Until, how- 
ever, his memoirs were published, n) one would have b<»- 
lieved that he depended on minute observation for tho 



672 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 

materials of his fancy. Before he wrote Rokeby, hu visited 
his friend Mr. Morritt, in whose grounds the scene of the 
poem was to be laid. "The Monday after his arrival, he 
said, ' You have often given me the materials for a romance, 
now I want a good robber's cave and an old church of the 
right sort.' We rode out and found what he wanted in the 
ancient slate quarry of Bignal, and the ruined abbey of 
Eglinstone. I observed him noting down even the peculiar 
little wild flowers and herbs that accidentally grew around 
and on the side of a bold crag near his intended cave of 
Guy Denzil, and could not help saying, that, as he was not 
to be on his oath in this work, daisies, violets and primroses, 
would be as poetic as any of the humble plants he was ex- 
amining. I laughed, in short, at his scrupulousness ; but I 
understood him when he replied that in nature herself no 
two scenes were exactly alike, and that whoever copied truly 
what was before his eyes, would possess the same variety in 
his descriptions, and exhibit, apparently, an imagination as 
boundless as the range of nature in the scenes which he 
describes ; but whoever trusted to imagination, would soon 
find his own mind circumscribed and contracted to a few 
favorite images, and the repetition of these would soon pro- 
duce that monotony and barrenness which have always 
haunted descriptive poetry in the hands of any but the pa- 
tient worshipper of truth. 'Besides,' said he, 'local 
names and peculiarities make a fictitious story look so much 
better in the face.' In fact, he was but half satisfied with 
the most beautiful scenery which he could not connect with 
some local legend." — Lockhart's Life of Scott, vol. 1, 
cage 426. 

Nor was Sir Walter Scott a close observer of nature 
merely in the forms of inanimate creation. His amazing 
power of delineating every variety of human character ma7 
be traced to the same source. When " The Pirate" appeared, 



IMPROVEMENT OF THE IMAGINATION. 373 

every me wondered at the fertile fancy of the Great Un- 
known, and his power of conceiving so accurately the man- 
ners, and even the modes of conversation of the people of 
the Hebrides. Those, however, who had accompanied the 
author in his visit to these regions, recognized in many of 
the most striking passages of the novel an almost literal 
record of the events which had transpired under their 
own eyes. We thus perceive that the exhaustless richness 
of the imagination of the great novelist was derived from 
a remarkably exact observation of nature and mankind, 
aided by a memory from which nothing seems to have 
escaped that could minister to the success of his literary 
labors. 

It is related of Stothard, an eminent English artist, that 
nothing could exceed the care with which he was in the 
habit of copying the minutest object in nature, in which he 
detected any special beauty. "He was beginning to paint 
the figure of a reclining sylph, when a difficulty arose in his 
mind how best to represent sucli a being of fancy. A friend 
present said, ' Give the sylph a butterfly-wing, and then you 
have it.' ' That I will,' said Stothard, 'and, to be correct, 
I will paint the wing from the butterfly itself.' He instantly 
sallied forth into the fields, caught one of these beautiful 
insects, and sketched it immediately. * * He became 
a hunter of butterflies. The more he caught, the greater 
beauty did he trace in their infinite variety, and he would 
often say that no one knew what he owed to these insects, — 
they had taught him the finest combinations in that difficult 
branch of art, coloring. * * Whenever he was in the 
fields, the sketch-book and the color-box were brought forth 
from his pocket, and many a wild plant, with its delicate 
formation of leaf and flower, was carefully cooied on tho 
spot. The springing of the tendrils from the stem, and 
every elegant bend and turn of the leaves, or the drooping 
32 



874 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 

of a bell, was observed and depicted with the utmost 
beauty." He who observes nature in this manner will 
never have occasion to complain of deficiency of materials 
for the use of the imagination. 

2. It is evident, however, that the successful use of the 
imagination does not depend merely upon our power to 
form pictures. We must do more than this. To conceive 
of a mountain more vast than another mountain might be 
considered an exercise of the imagination. But this would 
excite no emotion either of novelty or sublimity. The 
theogony of Boodhism is replete with conceptions of thia 
kind, but it awakens no other feeling than that of disgust. 
If we hope to cultivate this faculty, we must acquire the 
habit of associating the visible with the invisible, the mate- 
rial with the spiritual. Had Goldsmith, in his celebrated 
simile, compared the cliff to another cliff, or the village pas- 
tor to another village pastor, his conception would have been 
powerless, and would scarcely have escaped contempt. It 
is the unexpected coincidence between a sublime object in 
nature and the moral elements of a noble character, that 
presents one of the finest images to be found in the English 
language. We must learn to associate these two classes of 
objects together, so that, whatever be the point of observa- 
tion which the mind occupies, it shall habitually seek for 
appropriate analogies, and turn in the direction in which 
they will most readily be found. Thus, it was remarked 
above of Sir W. Scott, that "he was but half satisfied with 
the most beautiful scenery which he did not connect with 
some local legend." Thus, a poetic imagination instinctively 
sees all things double, blending, in beautiful harmony, 
thought, sentiment, subjective emotion, with whatever is most 
analogous to it in the objective world of nature or art. 

We may cultivate the imagination by studying atten- 
tively works most distinguished for poetical combination 



IMPROVEMENT OF THE IMAGINATION. 375 

I fl&j studying attentively, in distinction from, the mere 
cursory perusal of classical authors. We must not only 
read, but meditate upon the beautiful and sublime in 
thought, until wc feel the full force of every analogy ; en- 
tering into the spirit of the writer himself if we would 
avail ourselves of the most successful efforts of human 
genius. We thus acquire the intellectual habits of the mas- 
ters :f human thought. In the language of poetry, we 
catch a portion of their inspiration, instead of servilely ren- 
dering their thoughts in our own language. It is by the 
diligent study of a few of the best writers, and not the hasty 
readirg of many, that we derive the greatest benefit from 
the study of the classics of our own or any other country. 
The late Mrs. Grant, of Laggan, who had acquired uncom- 
mon power in the use of the English language, ascribed her 
success, more than to anything else, to the fact, that for sev- 
eral years in her youth, she was limited in her reading to 
the Bible, the Dictionary and Milton's Paradise Lost. 

But, after all, the study of the classics is mainly bene- 
ficial as it enables us to study nature for ourselves, and to 
discover the fountains from which genius in all ages has 
been invigorated. When we have learned to associate the 
seen with the unseen, we have acquired a language which 
enables us to read with new eyes the inexhaustible volume 
of the works of God. The world of matter and the world 
of thought stand up before us in grand parallelism, each 
reflecting light upon the other. Thus, in the descriptions 
of Washington Irving, every flower, every animal, every 
bird, the hill-side, the waterfall, the field and the forest, all 
seem endowed with life, and almost with reason ; they be- 
come our companions, and are ever suggesting to us some 
idea of playful humor or of affecting sentiment. Thus, the 
most common occurrences awakened in Bums those analo- 



876 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 

gies with human life and manners, wLici gave :ccasL.D itf 
Boint of his most exquisite odes. 

But, lastly, this habit, like any other, can only be culti- 
vated by practice. We must form the combinations of tho 
imagination, if we would learn to form them. We must 
assiduously cultivate the practice of writing, if we would 
learn to write well. If we would write well, we must write 
earnestly, having an end in view, and being deeply interested 
in the effort to attain it. In this state of mind analogies 
the more readily suggest themselves. As they arise dimly 
and flit before us at a distance, we should summcn them 
into our presence, and shape them if possible to our pu rpose ; 
If they are intractable we must labor the more strenu'/usiy, 
viewing them from different points, and striving to seize up- 
on their analogy with the idea which we wish them to illus- 
trate. We may frequently fail, or at best succeed but im- 
perfectly. This, however, should not discourage us. 
Nothing was ever exquisitely finished without unwearied 
and patient labor, and at the cost of repeated and mortifying 
failure. By untiring and well-directed effort, great things 
may in the end be accomplished. We must be patient with 
ourselves, and not expect to do without labor what other 
men have done in no other manner. Paradise Lost wa3 the 
work of almost a lifetime. Cowper somewhere informs ua 
that his poetry, which seems to flow without effort, cost him, 
on an average, half an hour for every line. If incessant 
toil was necessary to successful effort in minds so highly 
gifted, ordinary men surely need not to expect to 'luccecd 
without it. 

REFERENCES. 

Imagination in general — Stewart, vol. i., chap. 7, seo 1. 
Steps in the process — Stewart, vol. i., chap. 7, see. 1. 



PHILOSOPHICAL IMAGINATION. 37? 

Difference between abstraction in reasoning and imagination — Stew- 
Art, vol. i., chap. 4, sec. 1. 

Relation of imagination to character — Stewart, vol. i., chap. 7, 



Manner in which imagination pleases us — Stewart, vol. i., chap. 6, 
Part !„ sec. 4. 
Relation of imagination to fine arts — vol. i., ch. 7, sec. 2 



SECTION IV. — PHILOSOPHICAL IMAGINATION. 

There is another mode in which the imagination acts, of 
sufficient importance to deserve particular attention. It 
may be denominated Philosophical Imagination. With some 
remarks concerning it we shall conclude the present chapter. 

In this form of imagination, as in the preceding, we com- 
oine the elements which previously existed in the mind. 
The elements, however, are in the two cases dissimilar. In 
poetic imagination, as I have said, we make use of parts 
of individual wholes, which we combine anew, forming an 
image at will. In philosophical imagination our elements 
are single general truths or separate laws of nature, or the 
various relations of these laws to each other. These we 
combine into a conception of a new and more complicated 
law or general philosophical truth. 

The conceptions when formed by these separate acts of 
imagination are also exceedingly unlike. By poetical im- 
agination we form an individual picture, which may be 
represented to the senses. By philosophical imagination \\q 
form not a picture, but an ideal conception of some general 
truth. By the one we form images, by the otner we frame 
hypotheses. In the one case, the conception is addressed to 
the taste, and if the emotion of beauty or sublimity is 
awakened, our object is accomplished. In the other, the 
taste is wholly neglected, and our appeal is exclusively to 
32* 



878 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 

the understanding. If the conception is analogous to truth, 
or if its truth or falsehood can be definitely determined, 
nothing more is required. The design of the one is to give 
us pbasure ; of the other, to enlarge our knowledge. 

The nature of the conceptions which w T e are considering 
day be understood by examples. Copernicus, having ob- 
served the various established facts respecting the motions 
of the heavenly bodies, sought -to form a conception of their 
various relations which should account for every fact by 
bringing it under the control of some understood and 
acknowledged law. Ptolemy and Tycho Brahe had made 
the same attempt before, but they imagined laws nowhere 
existing, and left many of the facts wholly unaccounted for. 
Copernicus supposed the sun to be the centre of a single 
system, the stars being themselves centres of systems at 
infinite distances from it ; the earth and planets to move 
around the sun in orbits nearly circular, and the moon to 
be a satellite of the earth, revolving around it, and thus 
with it revolving around the centre of the system. By this 
conception, all the facts thus far observed were accounted 
for. Dr. Black, reflecting upon the facts which he had 
observed respecting the freezing of water, the melting of 
ice, and the formation and condensation of vapor, sought to 
form a conception of some general law, which should account 
for all the phenomena. He was thus led to originate the 
doctrine of latent heat, and immediately saw that this would 
fulfil every requirement. Each of these is an instance of 
philosophical imagination. It is an original conception cf 
Borne general law, or combination of laws, addressing itself 
to the understanding, and harmonizing facts otherwise 
apparently contradictory. 

These illustrations appertain to science. But essentially 
the same exercise of the imagination must be employed in 
every original design. We can never either think or act 



\ 



PHILOSOPHICAL IMAGINATION. 379 

efficiently, unless we think or act in conformity with a plan. 
There must always exist some ideal which we propose either 
to prove, or else to realize in action. This ideal must be the 
product of the imagination. The ideal of Paradise Lost 
was thoroughly thought out before a line of it was written. 
So the plan of every great enterprise must be matured, and 
its detail thoroughly arranged, before it can be commenced 
with any hope of success. We see, then, how important an 
element of individual or social progress is found l: the exer- 
cise of this faculty. 

It must be apparent that great diversities of character 
must necessarily arise from the different degrees in which 
this endowment is bestowed. Some men have no ideals. 
They form no plans beyond those demanded in the conduct 
of the ordinary affairs of life. In all things else they follow 
instinctively the beaten track, and yield with unquestioning 
submission to the opinions of those who have gone before 
them. They have no other rule of action than implicitly to 
follow their file-leader, fully convinced that nothing can be 
better than what has been, and that a course of action must 
of necessity be wise, provided it has been for a long whilo 
pursued. Others, again, are overburdened with imaginings. 
They do nothing but form plans, and originate projects 
which have no foundation in general principles, and must 
inevitably end in ludicrous failure. Such men, however, 
rarely attempt to realize their own schemes ; they are satis- 
fied with the attempt to force them upon others. They are 
the builders of castles in the air, ever striving after impossi- 
bilities, spending tbeir lives in the fruitless labor of pursu- 
ing phantoms and grasping after unsubstantial shadows. 
That man is rarely endowed who is able to originate ideala 
testing on truth, and to work them out with that bold sagacity 
which ensures the possibility of realizing them in action. 
VVhen such power is united with executive talent, and guided 



880 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPH7. 

by enlarged benevolence, it designates a man who was created 
for the benefit of his race. 

It is important to observe the relation which a philosophi- 
cal imagination sustains to the reasoning power in out 
investigation of truth. 

I have said that reasoning is the process by which we 
pass from the known to the unknown, and thus transform 
the unknown into the known. Suppose the philosopher to 
stand on the utmost limits of the known. His reason is 
prepared either to prove or disprove any proposition that 
may be presented. But there is no proposition presented. 
There is nothing within the cognizance of the understand- 
ing, but on the one side the known, and, on the other, 
absolute silence and darkness. Reason presents no proposi- 
tion. Its sole province is either to prove or disprove what ia 
placed before it. None of the other faculties which we 
have considered can present propositions to the reason, as 
the matter on which its powers shall be exerted. Hence 
the necessity of the imagination. Its office is to pass beyond 
the limits of the known, and form a conception which may 
be true of something in the unknown. This it presents in 
the shape of a proposition or a philosophical conception. 
As soon as this is done, an opportunity is offered for the 
exercise of the reasoning faculty. There is something now 
to be proved, and there may be something by which to prove 
it. We at once endeavor to discover some media of proof 
which may show a necessary connection between what is 
known, and this proposition which is, as yet, unknown. 
Until this connection can be shown, our proposition is a mere 
Bisggestion, a theory, an hypothesis. As soon as this con- 
nection has been established, what was before hypothesis 
becomes acknowledged truth, and by just so much is the 
dominion of science extended. 

Or, to express the same idea in another form, experiment, 



PHILOSOPHICAL IMAGINATItN". 381 

or the attempt to discover new truth, is nothing more than 
putting questions to nature. But a question supposes soma 
definite object of inquiry. The answer of nature, if she 
answer at vl\, is always either yes or no. Philosophical 
imagination enables us to put the question in a form capable 
of a definite answer. It suggests a conception which may 
be true or false, but which must be either one or the other. 
By experiment or demonstration we put the question to 
nature, and receive her answer either affirmative or nega- 
tive. If the answer be negative, we surrender our proposi- 
tion as worthless, and the imagination suggests another, and 
another, until an affirmative answer is received. The work 
is then accomplished, and a new truth is added to the sum 
of human knowledge. 

Thus the conceptions of Ptolemy and of Copernicus were 
both mere hypotheses of equal value, until one was proved 

J to be true. The conception of Newton, that the motions 

! of the bodies which compose the solar system are all sub- 
jected to the law of gravitation, was a mere hypothesis, a 
creation of the imagination, until it was scientifically estab- 

/ lished. He himself so considered it, and I believe never 
/ mentioned it until he had proved it. He considered it merely 
\ a question which he had put to nature, unworthy of atten- 
tion until he had received an affirmative answer. At first, 
he supposed that the answer which he received was negative. 
Taking for one element of his calculations .the length of a 

\ degree of the earth, as it had been measured by the French 
\mathematicians, he found that his hypothesis could not be 
established, and he laid it aside for several years. A new 
a,nd more accurate measurement was afterwards obtained, 
which brought to his recollection his almost forgotten com- 
putations. He commenced them anew, with more accurate 
data, and soon arrived at the result which added his name 
to the brief list of those who must always be remembered 



382 INTELLEL,; OAL PHILOSOPHY. 

The same process must be performed in every case where a 
scientific truth is discovered. The proposition of the squares 
on the skies of a right-angled triangle was a mere hypoth- 
esis to Pythagoras until he had demonstrated its truth. 

These illustrations have referred to science. The truth 
here suggested is, however, of wider application. Thus, the 
ingenious inventor has become acquainted with some natural 
law which he believes may be rendered available for the 
service of inan. He must form in his own mind a concep 
tion of the manner in which this result may be accomplished. 
At first a rough draft is present before him. He per- 
ceives its. imperfections, and labors to correct them. One 
and another plan suggests itself, until he has before him a 
whole system of arrangements by which the result may be 
attained. Months of anxious thought were consumed by 
Watt and Fulton before they perfected those conceptions, 
which, when realized in the form of inventions, have revolu- 
tionized the manufactures and commerce of the world. The 
same remark will apply to a military commander, who, 
before a sword is drawn, must form in his mind the whole 
plan of a campaign. Thus it is that an act of the imagina- 
tion must precede every other, when an important truth is 
to be discovered, or great enterprise to be achieved. . We 
must, first of all, form a conception of what we would do, or 
prove, and of the means by which it is to be accomplished. 
We may, it is true, fall short of our ideal ; but, except by 
accident, we cannot go beyond it. Hence this creative 
f power lies at the foundation of all great excellence. Other 
\ things being equal, he will certainly arrive at the most 
', eminent success, who is able to take the largest, most com- 
: prehensive, and most truthful views of that which he desirea 
to accomplish. 

I shall close this chapter by a few suggestions on thfl 
mode :>f improving a philosophical imagination. 



PHILOSOPHICAL IMAGINATION 383 

It is obvious that this power, to be of any practical value 
tLust derive its materials from essential truth. Fancies can 
never form the elements of a philosophical imagination. We 
desire to discover truth ; but truth can only be discovered 
by means of truth. The more thoroughly, therefore, we are 
acquainted with the known, the more easily shall we dis- 
cover the regions which may be reclaimed from the unknown. 
He will be more likely to extend the limits of human 
knowledge who has made himself acquainted with already 
discovered truth. Newton, at an early age, was familiar 
with all that was then known of the science of astronomy ; 
and this knowledge pointed out to him the line in which dis- 
covery was to be made. Columbus was profoundly learned 
in the geography of his age. He was intimately acquainted 
with all that had been discovered of the figure of the earth, 
and the proportions in which its surface was covered with 
land and water. This knowledge first suggested to him the 
idea of a new continent. Had he known of nothing beyond 
the shores of the gulf of Genoa, his mind could never have 
formed this magnificent conception, and after-ages would 
never have heard of the " world-seeking Genoese." 

2. I have before remarked the power of generalization to 
aid in the discovery of truth. We may here observe the 
mode in which it tends to this result. Every object in 
nature, every change, every law, is the type of a class more 
numerous than we are able to conceive. These types are 
repeated and diversified in infinite variety, but they are all 
characteiized by the same essential elements, unseen, it may 
be, by the casual observer, but understood by the far-sighted 
interpreter of nature. lie who is able to distinguish the 
essential elements of a type from its accidental circum- 
stances, trace them out through their various manifestations, 
and expand them to their widest generalisations, will find hia 
mind replete with conceptions of all possible truth. Gen- 



/ 

/ 



384 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 

eralization pointed out to Newton those conceptions wln'cto 
led to most of his discoveries, and also gave rise to man^ 
suggestions which were not proved to be discoveries until 
more than a century after his death. In his experiments 
on light, he observed that the refracting power of different 
bodies was in proportion to their combustibility, and that the 
diamond possessed the former power in an unusual degree. 
Applying this law to this particular case, he was led to con 
ceive that the diamond itself might be combustible. Though 
a mineral, and the hardest of known substances, he disre- 
garded these accidents, and, boldly generalizing his idea, 
predicted a discovery which only a few years since has been 
established. 

/ 3. In the works of a great artist, there is always to be 
/ observed a manner peculiar to himself, which a true connois- 
seur will readily detect. We call this peculiarity the style 
of an author or an artist. It is derived from the intellec- 
tual and moral character of the individual, and is that which 
renders his outward works the index of his inward and spir- 
itual mind. It is natural to suppose that this peculiarity 
should be apparent in the works of the Creator. There is 
a speciality in his mode of treating subjects, a style which 
designates all the works of his hand. He who, by deep and 
profound reflection on the works of God, has become most 
familiar with the laws of that which we call nature, and 
with the relations which these laws sustain to each other, 
■will be the most likely to penetrate into the unknown, and 
originate those conceptions which lead to the discovery of 
truth. The further he advances in his investigations, the 
richer will be the field of discovery that opens before him. 
If I may be allowed, I will use an illustration which I 
once employed when treating on this subject. " Suppose I 
should present before you one of the paintings of Raphael. 
and ; covering a part of it with a screen, ask you to proceed 



PHILOSOPHICAL IMAGINATION. 885 

with the work, and designate where the next lines should be 
drawn. It is evident that none but a painter ever need 
make the attempt, and that, of painters, he would be the 
most likely to succeed who was best acquainted with the 
genius of Raphael, and had most thoroughly meditated on 
the manner in which that genius manifested itself in the 
work before him. So, of the system of the universe. We 
see but in part; all the rest is hidden from our view. 
He will, however, most readily discover where the next 
lines are drawn who is most thoroughly acquainted with 
the character of the author, and has observed with the 
greatest accuracy the manner in which that character is dis- 
played in that portion of the system which he has revealed 
to us. It is evident, also, that just in proportion as the 
work advanced, and portion after portion of the screen was 
removed, just in that proportion would the difficulty of com- 
pleting the whole be diminished." — Discourse on the Phi- 
losophy of Analogy. 

If these remarks be true, they throw some light upon 
the subject of education. The power of forming conceptions 
which shall lead to discovery in science, or to the practica- 
ble in action, is clearly of vast importance. Can this power 
be cultivated 1 On this question there can be no doubt. It 
steadily increases with the progress of the human mind. 
We naturally inquire whether the cultivation of this ele- 
ment of intellectual character has been regarded with suffi- 
cient attention by those who form our courses of higher 
education. A large part of the studies which we pursue 
add very little to our power of forming conceptions of any 
character whatever. A larger infusion of the study of 
physical science, not merely as a collection of facts, but as 
a system of laws, with their relations and dependencies, 
would be of great value in this respect. We thus study 
the ideas and conceptions of the Creator. We become ac- 



S86 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 

quainted with his manner of accomplishing his purposes, 
and learn, in seme measure, the style of the Author of all 
things. Surely, this habit of mind must be of unspeakable 
value to a philosopher in the discovery of truth, or to a man 
of affairs in devising his plans, since these can only succeed 
as they are in harmony with the designs of infinite wisdom 
and benevolence. 

" There 's a Divinity that shapes our ends, 
Rough-hew them as we will." 

RE FE REN CES. 

Nature of hypothesis — Reid, Essay 1, chap. 3. 
Importance of ideals — Stewart, vol L, chap. 7, 8eo. 6. 
Certain style in nature's works — vol. ii., chap. 4, Rfe & 



CHAPTER V1IK 

TASTE. 



SECTION I. — THE NATUltE 01 TAif/A 

We have now considered the most important <f those 
powers of the human mind which may be strictly termed 
intellectual ; that is, which are employed in the acquisition 
and increase of knowledge. By the use of these wc might 
prosecute our inquiries in every direction, and extend the 
limits of science, as far as it has been permitted by our Crea- 
tor. But were this all, we should be deprived of much of 
the innocent pleasure which accompanies the employment 
of our faculties, and thus lose an important inducement to 
mental cultivation. We find that many of the phenomena 
which we observe, are to us a source of happiness, frequently 
of an exquisite character. This happiness is bestowed upon 
us through means of another endowment, which we denomi- 
nate taste. It is so intimately associated with the faculties 
purely intellectual, that our view of them would be imperfect 
did we not bestow upon it- at least a brief examination. 

Taste is that mental sensibility by which we cognize the 
beauties and deformities of nature and art, — enjoying 
pleasure from the one, and suffering pain from the other. 

In this definition we speak of taste as a sensibility, rathet 



388 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 

than a faculty. A faculty is the power of doing something, 
of putting forth some act, or accomplishing some change. 
Such is not the nature of taste. It creates no change. It 
merely recognizes its appropriate object, and is the seat of the 
subjective emotion to which the object gives exercise. When 
an object is presented, taste recognizes its aesthetic quality ; 
it is sensible of pleasure or pain, and here its office terminates. 
Of the universality of this endowment there cannot be a 
question. The consciousness of every man bears testimony 
to its existence. When we look upon a rainbow, we are 
sensible of an emotion wholly different from that with which 
we look upon the dark cloud which it overspreads. The 
cause of the emotion we call the beauty of the rainbow, and 
the emotion itself we recognize as one of a peculiar charac- 
ter, unlike any other of which we are conscious. We ob- 
serve that all men are affected by a multitude of objects in 
the same manner as ourselves. Young and old, cultivated 
and uncultivated, observe this quality in many of the same 
objects, and are affected by them in the same manner. It 
is not asserted, however, that all men recognize the quality 
of beauty in the same things, or that all men are conscious 
of the same intensity of aesthetic emotion. These may vary 
by association and culture. What is here affirmed, is, that 
all men, in various degrees, are conscious of the pleasure 
lerived from the observation of objects which they term 
Deautiful, and that there are objects, which all men of the 
same or a similar degree of culture, designate by this epi- 
thet. Hence, particular scenes have been, by all observers, 
denominated beautiful or sublime. Hence, descriptions of 
localities or events have been transmitted from age to age, 
from nation to nation, and from language to language, ever 
awakening the emotions to which they at first owed their 
celebrity. Anaereon's ode to Spring, Homer's description 
of a storm in the iEgean, Horace's Fountain of Brundu* 



NATURE OF TASTE. 389 

Bium and the pleasures of a country life, Milton's Garden 
of Eden, seem beautiful to all men ; and every man, when 
he applies to them this designation, is certain that he uses 
language which is perfectly well understood by the men 
whom he addresses. 

It may serve to render our notion of taste more definite 
if we distinguish it from some of the faculties with which 
it is liable to be confounded. 

Taste is sometimes confounded with imagination. Thus 
figurative language and works of art in general are some- 
times said to be addressed to the imagination. This is not 
strictly true. The conceptions of the fine arts are created 
by the imagination of one, and reproduced by the imagina- 
tion of another. This is, however, only the means to an 
end. Our ultimate object is to present them to taste, for, 
unless the taste be gratified, no matter how strongly they 
may be imagined, the whole object for which they are 
created, fails. 

Imagination is the faculty by which we combine ; taste 
is the sensibility by which we feel. Imagination forms pic- 
tures ; taste determines whether or not a certain quality 
exists in them after they are formed. By my imagination, 
I form a conception of a landscape ; by my taste, I decide 
upon the beauty of the conception which I have created. 
Imagination creates ; taste judges of the creation. Imagina- 
tion itself is the seat neither of pleasure nor pain ; all the 
pleasure which we enjoy, or the pain which we suifer, from 
the works of the imagination, is derived from taste. 

These endowments may be conferred in very different degree 
upon the same person. A fertile imagination, as I have 
before remarked, is sometimes combined with a very imper- 
fect taste. In such cases, an artist will form images in 
great profusion, but they fail to please, and sometimes die- 
gust us. Such seems to have been the case with Fuseli, a 
33* 



B9C INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOIHY. 

pamier of boundless imagination, but frequently combining 
in his conceptions the sublime and the ridiculous. Thia 
peculiar type of character is not uncommonly found in par- 
sons passing into insanity, or in that condition of the intel- 
lect, sometimes existing through life, in which the individual 
dwells habitually upon the narrow confine which separates 
sanity from madness. The late Edward Irving, a man of 
powerful imagination and withal of commanding eloquence, 
seems for many of the later years of his life to have exem- 
plified this remark. 

It is, however, more common to find men endowed with a 
correct taste, but deficient in imagination. Such persons, 
have no power of original creation, while they will decide 
correctly concerning the creations of others. They are 
good critics, but bad artists. For a man of so eminent en- 
dowments, I think that Addison may be considered much 
more remarkable for taste than imagination. I think it was 
the great Lord Chatham who remarked, that few men were 
endowed with the " prophetic eye of taste," that is, who 
could create for themselves a conception, and judge correctly 
concerning its beauty, before it had assumed a visible reality. 
His remark was made with reference to landscape gardening, 
but it is of general application. We know that almost every 
man can determine whether grounds are laid out beautifully, 
while very few men have the talent for so laying them out 
as to confer permanent pleasure on the beholder. Distin- 
guished success in the fine arts can only be attained by 
those, in whom both of these endowments are in an eminent 
degree united. Homer, Milton, Shakspeare, M. Angelo, 
Raphael, were all thus preeminently gifted. 

Taste and conscience have many points both of similarity 
and difference. Both of them belong to the class of original 
suggestions. Both take cognizance of a peculiar quality in 
an external object, and both derire either pleasure or pai« 



NATUKE OF TASTE. 391 

from the cognizance of this quality. When I see an act 
done, I recognize in it the quality of right or wrong, and I 
am conscious also of a subjective emotion. So I perceive 
an external object. I observe in it the quality of beauty or 
deformity, and it awakens its corresponding aesthetic emo- 
tion, which is either the pleasure or pain of taste. In theso 
respects they singularly coincide. 

In many important particulars, however, they are widely 
dissimilar. 

Conscience observes the peculiar quality which it detects, 
in nothing but the voluntary actions of responsible beings. 
Taste discovers the quality which it cognizes, in all objects 
material and spiritual, in all actions, and in all relations. 
The one is called into action by the quality of right or 
wrong ; the other by beauty or deformity. The diiference 
between these two qualities is manifest at once to our con- 
sciousness. Every one knows that the quality which he 
recognizes in a rose, and that which he recognizes in an act 
of noble self-sacrifice, are as different as any two objects 
within the range of his knowledge. The subjective emotion 
awakened by conscience is wholly unlike that awakened by 
taste. The emotion of conscience is complicated with a 
variety of other emotions, as, for instance, of moral appro- 
bation or disapprobation, the conviction of good or ill desert, 
the assurance of consequences which must result from 
moral action. The pleasure of taste is simple, terminating 
in itself, and wholly destitute of any moral emotion. No 
nian can pay even a casual attention to the deliverances of 
consciousness, without being convinced of the wide differ- 
ence both objective and subjective, of these two endowments. 

The character of taste varies greatly with age. In youth, 
bright colors and strong contrasts please us. We are inca- 
pable of being affected by anything which does not impress 
us strongly. As we gr;>w older, we derive more pleasura 



$92 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 

from form, proportion, symmetry and expression. Les* 
kzzling colors, and more subdued contrasts become agree- 
able, and we behold with indifference what we once admired 
as beautiful. In this respect, savages resemble children 
No color pleases them so much as scarlet, no matter in what 
form it may become a part of the dress. Their ornaments 
are such as force themselves upon the notice, without any 
regard to the relation which they sustain to the character 
of the wearer, or their harmony with the general impression 
which he supposes himself to produce. Ornaments, in a 
more advanced state of society, worn merely to attract 
attention, or for the display of wealth, manifest the same im- 
perfection of taste which we observe in savages. 



SECTION II. — TASTE CONSIDERED OBJECTIVELY. — MATE- 
RIAL QUALITIES AS OBJECTS OF TASTE. 

Tbe objects adapted to awaken the emotion of taste arc 
innumerable. The Creator, having bestowed upon us this 
sensibility, has made the universe around us to minister tc 
its gratification. The heavens above, the earth beneath, 
all the changes of the seasons, all the products of animal 
and vegetable life, the gems of the mine and the pearls of 
the ocean, the ripple of the brook and the thunder of the 
cataract, the prancing of the war-horse and the bounding 
of the fawn, the wing of the butterfly and the plumage of 
the bird of Paradise, the carol of the lark and the wild 
scream of the eagle, with the ten thousand objects which 
meot us wherever we look abroad upon the works of God. 
are intended to awaken the emotions of beauty and sublim- 
ity, and fill us with humble adoration of Him who is the 
Give: of every gx>d and perfect gift. 



OBJECTS OF TASTE. 393 

To attempt an enumeration of all the objects in which we 
discover beauty or sublimity would be useless. We shall 
merely indicate some of the classes of objects by which we 
are thus affected, principally for the sake of directing atten- 
tion to the aesthetic elements existing in the w^rld around U3. 

The qualities of external objects which address them- 
selves to the taste are those which are perceived by the eye 
and the ear. 

By the eye we perceive color, form, and motion 

Color as an object of beauty. 

Colors may be divided into prismatic and plain. 

The prismatic colors are violet, indigo, blue, green, yel- 
low, orange and red. These all are beautiful separately, 
and, in an eminent degree, when combined. What can be 
more exquisitively beautiful in color, than the summer rain- 
bow or the solar spectrum ? No human being probably ever 
looked upon them without intense delight. 

A distinction may, however, be discovered between the 
prismatic colors. The first three of the series, in the order 
in which I have mentioned them, may be denominated grave, 
the List three gay, while the remaining one. green, possesses 
a character intermediate between them. Hence, gay colors 
are most appropriate to festive occasions, while graver are 
adapted to occasions of solemnity. The dresses of men are 
generally either black or blue ; those of women, of every 
variety of color, but more commonly gay. How strangely 
inappropriate would it seem if the dresses of a wedding 
party or a ball-room, and those of a court of justice were ex- 
changed for each other ! The colors of the garden and tho 
field are commonly either white or some modification of red, 
orange, or yellow. The grave colors are here observed but 
rarely, and then in their lighter shades : or, by being mingled 
with the others, they increase their effect by contrast. 

The color, however, wh'eh is most abundantly spread 



£94 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 

over nature is green. It is universally agreeable ; it admits 
of an infinite variety of shade, and, without producing any 
vivid emotion, harmonizes most happily with all. A grove 
is an appropriate place for a festive entertainment, and trees 
are the indispensable ornament of a cemetery, where every- 
thing reminds us of the sorrows of separation and the so- 
lemnities of eternity. 

Color sometimes becomes an element of sublimity as well 
as of beauty. The sublimity of a thunder cloud is increased 
by its intense blackness. The deep blue of the heavens, in 
a clear night, adds greatly to the grandeur of the spectacle 
which they exhibit. 

Many of the objects which we perceive are clothed with 
plain colors, as gray, brown, dusky, or wood color. These 
produce in us no emotion, either of pleasure or pain, but 
they relieve the eye when fatigued by the brilliancy of the 
prismatic colors. Thus, the earth when not covered with 
vegetation, the trunks and branches of trees, and most of 
our domestic animals, are clothed in plain colors. 

Form. — We detect the quality of beauty in the simplest 
varieties of form. Thus, a straight is more beautiful than 
an irregular line. A curved, irrespective of utility, is more 
beautiful than a straight line. A spiral line, as of a vine 
entwined around a column, is more beautiful than either. 
The stems of flowers that bend gently downward, like the 
lily of the valley, are more beautiful than those which stand 
straight and inflexible, like the hollyhock. Every one has 
remarked the difference between the serpentine bending of 
a river, seeming to turn at will in any direction which it 
prefers, and the stiff rectilinearity of a canal, carried through 
hill and over valley, without a single graceful flexure to 
vary its monotony. 

Angles seem capal le of greater beauty than could have 
been anticipated. The obtuse angle of the roof of a Grecian 



OBJECTS 0* TASTE. 395 

temple is remarkably agreeable. The whole effect of the 
edifice would be destroyed by raising the roof to an acute 
angle. On the contrary, a pyramid standing on the ground, 
if its apex were obtuse, would appear squat and disgusting. 
Yet, an acute-angled roof is not always displeasing. To a 
Gothic edifice it is indispensable, and here an obtuse angle 
would be intolerable. That this difference exists must, I 
think, be admitted by all. The reason of it I am unable 
to discover. 

Figure. — Irrespective of utility, figures bounded by 
curves are more beautiful than those bounded by straight 
lines. A sphere is more beautiful than a cube, a circle 
than a square, an ellipse than a parallelogram, a cylindri- 
cal than a rectangular column. The lines of beauty in the 
human countenance are all curves. What could be more 
shocking than a human face, formed by right lines? The 
petals of flowers, the outline of fruits, are almost univer- 
sally bounded by curves. 

Regular figures are always more beautiful than irregular. 
A square is more beautiful than a trapezoid. A room of 
which the opposite sides are not equal, or a window or door 
not exact parallelograms, affect us painfully. The roof of a 
house of which the sides slant unequally is everywhere dis- 
agreeable. 

Simple forms are generally more beautiful than complex. 
Every one admires the simple majesty of a Grecian temple, 
the mere combination of a few right lines and circles. Yet 
this rule is, by no means, exclusive. The Gothic cathedral 
is remarkable for its extreme complexity, both of design 
and ornament, and yet it is preeminently beautiful. 

Proportion. — Proportion is a relation existing between 
the parts of the same figure, as between the length and 
breadth of a parallelogram, the two diameters of an ellipse, 
the diameter and height of a column, or the base aud eleva- 



896 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 

tion of a building. In some of these we discover beauty ; 
in others deformity. A building with no other beauty 
than that of proportion is frequently decidedly agreeable. 
It requires the highest skill in an artist to determine before- 
hand the proportions that shall please all men in all ages. 
In this respect the taste of the Greeks was preeminent. 
The canons which they established ftrr the proportions of 
the several parts of a temple have never been improved. 
It has been found that no material departure can be made 
from them without producing deformity. 

Uniformity, or perfect similarity of corresponding parts, 
is another source of beauty. We admire a tree, of which 
the opposite branches are equal, and project at the same 
angle from the trunk. A building with equal wings on 
the opposite sides is frequently beautiful ; but if the wings 
be of different magnitudes, or dissimilar construction, it is 
considered a deformity. The limbs on the opposite sides of 
the body, the features on the opposite sides of the face, are 
uniform ; when it is otherwise, we are pained by what seems 
a monstrosity. 

But, while uniformity is pleasing, it is necessary to observe 
that its opposite, variety, is equally pleasing. In objects 
designed to accomplish the same purpose we expect uni- 
formly ; but when the design is different, or even suscep- 
tible of modification, we are delighted with variety. Wo 
love to see the opposite branches of the same tree uniform ; 
but we also love to see the different trees of a forest or a 
park marked by every possible variety. We are pleased 
when the windows of a house, in the same story and in the 
same line, are uniform ; but we are also pleased to see the 
windows of different stories dissimilar. If two rows of 
columns are placed one above the other, in the front of a 
building, it would be monstrous to see different orders of 



OBJECTS OF TASTE. 8J7 

wchitecture occupying the same line ; but we are pleased 
when the upper row is of a different order from the lower. 

Magnitude has an important influence on all our aesthetic 
ideas. Vastness is a quality which addresses strongly the 
sensibility of taste. Every one has felt the emotion of sub- 
limity when travelling through a mountainous country. 
Hence a region like Switzerland becomes a favorite resort 
for the lovers of nature from every part of the civilized 
world. The ocean is at all times a most impressive object, 
especially when lashed into tempest. Here vastness in 
magnitude combines with resistless force to create the 
strongest emotion of sublimity. On the other hand, small- 
ness, if combined with regularity, may be eminently beau- 
tiful; but, without regularity, littleness awakens no emotion. 
An overhanging cliff is sublime ; a fragment broken off 
from it is indifferent ; but a delicately-formed crystal found 
in that fragment may be remarkably beautiful. The temple 
of Minerva, or Lincoln cathedral, impresses us with awe, 
and awakens the emotion of sublimity ; but an accurate 
model of either, of a few inches in magnitude, would be 
exceedingly beautiful. A cascade in a brook is beautiful ; 
but the cataract of Niagara is inexpressibly sublime. 

Such are some of the facts relating to beauty of form 
It is proper, however, to remark that they are enly general, 
not universal ; that is, we frequently observe beauty which 
seems at variance with the most commonly observed laws. 
We can never say that, because a particular form or pro- 
portion is beautiful, therefore, in different circumstances, a 
form directly the reverse must be disagreeable. Our notions 
en these subjects are frequently modified by association. 
But where no association exists, we observe contradictions 
which can be harmonized by no laws with which I am ac- 
quainted. A remarkable instance of this occurs in the 
wonderful beauty of the Grecian temple and the Gothio 

34 



S98 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 

cathedral, of which the canons are precisely the reverse of 
each other. In deciding upon any form of beauty, oui 
appeal must, therefore, be to the sensitiveness of our com- 
mon nature. The taste of mankind is here ultimate, and 
seems frequently to set all our laws at defiance. 

Motion as a source of beauty. 

Motion is in itself pleasing. A ship under Bail is vastly 
anre beautiful than a ship lying at anchor or at the wharf. 

But motion is of various kinds, each exhibiting some 
peculiar form of beauty. 

Motion may be either quick or slow. Though both ai<a 
agreeable objects to the taste, slow motion tends more to the 
beautiful, and swift to the sublime. The slow sailing of a 
hawk is beautiful ; when pouncing upon his prey, the motion 
tends to the sublime. The gentle flow of a river is beau 
tiful ; when it falls over a precipice it is sublime. 

In general, it may be remarked, that no motion is beau- 
tiful which betokens toil or violent effort. The nearer it 
approaches to utter unconsciousness of exertion, other things 
being equal, the more beautiful it becomes. Every one 
must have observed the aesthetic difference between the toil- 
some gait of a rhinoceros, or an elephant, and the elastic 
bounding of a deer. The motion of a vessel under sail, 
for this reason, is, I think, more beautiful than of one pro- 
pelled by steam. 

Motion in curves is more beautiful than that in straight 
lines, both because of the greater beauty of the curved lino, 
and because curvilinear motion indicates less effort. For 
these reasons, the motion of a fish in the water has always 
seemed to me remarkably beautiful. The waving of a field 
of grain, presenting an endless succession of curved lines, 
advancing and receding with gentle motion, uniform in thl 
midst of endless variety, has always seemed to me one ot 
the most beautiful objects in nature. On the contrary 



OBJECTS OF TASTE. 399 

jolting and angular motion always displeases us. How dif- 
ferent is the effect produced by the motion of one man on 
crutches, ai ,d of another on skates ! 

Ascending motion is more graceful than descending, if it 
do not betoken effort. The ascent of a rocket is more beau- 
tiful than its descent, especially if it ascend in a curved line. 
For this reason a jet d'eau is vastly more beautiful than a 
waterfall of the same volume. Ascending motion in spiral 
lines is exceedingly beautiful, as for instance, the ascent of 
a hawk, as it moves slowly upward, in oft-repeated circles. 

It is manifest that many objects derive their power to 
please us from a single one of these qualities. Thus, the 
evening cloud displays rarely any other beauty than that of 
color. Others combine several of them, conducing to the 
same result. Thus the rainbow unites beauty of color with 
beauty of form. The greater the number and the more intense 
the degree in which any object unites these several qualities, 
the more impressive does it become, and the more univer- 
sally is it selected by poets and artists for aesthetic effect, 
Thus the human form, especially the countenance, combin- 
ing beauty of color, form, motion, and expression, is always 
considered the most remarkable object in nature, and is 
selected by painters and sculptors, as the finest subject on 
which their art can be employed. 

Objects of taste addressed to the ear, or beauty of 
sound. 

That sound is a source of beauty, independently, and 
especially in combination with otlier objects, will be readily 
gi anted by every lover of nature. How greatly is the effect 
of a summer's landscape increased by the singing of birds ! 

Sounds differ in their degree of loudness. 

Loudness awakens the emotion of sublimity, as in the 
instance of a peal of thunder or the roar of a cataract. 
Soothing sounds, as the singing of birds, the hum of beea 



4M INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 

ihe ratling of the trees of a forest, add greatly to tha 
effect of a summer's landscape. Low, continuous sound 
tends to repose, and harmonizes with all our ideas of the 
peace and quietness of a country life. These circumstances 
are beautifully combined by Virgil, in describing the peace 
of Italy, in contrast with the civil wars by which it had 
been so lately devastated : 

" Sepes 
Hyblaeis apibus florem depasta salicti, 
Saepe levi somnum suadebit inire susurro 
Hinc, alta sub rupe, canit frondator ad auras, 
Nee tamen interea, raucse, tua cura, palunibes, 
Nee gemere aeria cessabit turtur ab ulmo." 

1 Bucofio. 

So Shakspeare, alluding to the power of gentle rounds 

'• That strain again ; it had a dying fall. 
0, it came o 'er my ear like the sweet south 
That breathes upon a bank of violets, 
Stealing and giving odor." 

Twelfth Night, Act 1, Scene 1. 

But, while loudness of sound awakens the emotion of sub- 
limity, it must not be supposed that its opposite, absolute 
Bilence, is unimpressive. Deep silence is frequently emi- 
nently sublime, especially when it occurs in the intermission 
of the roar of the tempest, or in preparation for the awful 
eatastrophe of a battle. Campbell, in his "Battle •«* the 
Baltic," illustrates this fact in these remarkable liner 

As they drifted on their path, 
There was silence deep as death, 
And the boldest held his breath 

For a time. 
* Hearts of oak ! ' our captain med, and e/ich gun. 
From its adamantine lips, 



OBJECTS OF TASTE. 401 

Spmead a death-shade round tha ships. 
Like the hurricane eclipse 
Of the sun." 

The late Dr. Jeffries, of Boston, in the narrative of Via 
passage across the English Channel with Montgolfier, in a 
balloon, has the following striking remark : 

u Amidst all the magnificent scenes around me and under 
me, nothing at the time more impressed me with its novelty 
than (if I may be allowed to use the expression) the aw- 
ful stillness or silence in which we seemed to be enveloped, 
which produced a sensation that I am unable to describe, 
but which seemed at the time to be a certain kind of stillness 
(if I ma j so express it) that could be felt."-- Narrative 
of Two Aerial Voyages, page 52. 

Sound may be either lengthened or abrupt. Continuous 
sound is grave ; abrupt sound is exciting. We all have ob- 
served the difference between the long, reechoed bellowings 
of distant thunder, and the sudden rattling reverberation 
of thunder near at hand. Music with few or distant inter- 
vals harmonizes with a melancholy train of thought. Mu- 
sic with rapid and frequent intervals is cheering and ani- 
mating. Every one knows the different effects of a dirge 
and a quick-step, or of the same air played in q lick and in 
slow time. 

The effect of music on our emotions is thus admirably 
iesci ibed by Cowper : 

M There is in souls a sympathy with sounds, 
And as the mind is pitched, the ear is pleased 
With melting airs or martial, brisk or grave. 
Some chord in unison with what we hear 
Is touched within us, and the heart replies. 
How soft the music of yon village bells, 
Rolling at intervals upon the ear 
In cadence sweet ! now dying all away. 
Now pealing loud again, and louder still* 

o4* 



402 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 

Clear and sonorous as the gale comes on 
With easy force it opens all the cells 
Where memory slept." 

Task, Book 6. 

I have thus far spoien of sounds which produce an 
aesthetic effect upon us by themselves. It is, however, 
probable that sounds depend more upon association for their 
effect, than either color or form. The effect of music is 
greatly increased by uniting it with appropriate words. The 
most common air, if associated with the remembrance of 
home and country and friends, becomes deeply affecting. I 
have heard the Swiss herdsman's song, and it seemed to me 
dull and monotonous, without any power of appeal to the 
heart. Yet it is said to effect these mountaineers, when in 
a foreign land, even to weeping ; so that the playing of it is 
forbidden in the armies with which they are in service. 

It is on this account that common sounds, nay, sounds in 
themselves displeasing, become, under peculiar circum- 
stances, delightful. There is nothing intrinsically pleasing 
in the lowing of cattle ; when heard close at hand, it is dis- 
agreeable. Yet I have heard seamen speak with deep feel- 
ing of the delight with which they listened to these sounds, 
when, after a long voyage, they first heard them from their 
tittive shore. In a word, anything pleases us which recalls 
deeply-affecting reminiscences : and music possesses this 
power in a remarkable degree. Cowper expresses this truth 
ffith exquisite taste in the following passage : 

" Nor rural sights alone, but rural sounds 
Exhilarate the spirit, and restore 
The tone of languid nature. Mighty winds, 
That sweep the skirt of some far-spreading wood 
Of ancient growth, make music not unlike 
The dash of ocean on his winding shore. 
Ten tin usand warblers oheer the iay, and one 



OBJECTS OF TASTE. 405 

The livelong night. Nor these alone, whose n^tet 
Nice-fingered art must emulate in vain, 
But cawing rooks, and kites, th^fr soar sublime 
In still repeated circles, screaming loud, 
The jay, the pie, and e'en the boding owl, . 
That hails the rising morn, have charms for me. 
Sounds inharmonious in themselves, and harsh, 
Yet heard in scenes where peace forever reigns. 
And only there, please highly, for her sake.'* 

Task, Book 1. 



SECTION III — OBJECTS OF TASTE. IMMATERIAL QUAL- 
ITIES. 

There can be no doubt tbat we discover in the creation 
around us much that is beautiful which cannot be referred 
to any material quality. There are various attributes of 
human beings which do not discover themselves to the 
senses. There are various affections of our spiritual nature 
which we are able to contemplate distinctly by themselves. 
These affections are capable of producing in us the emotion 
of beauty and sublimity, or of deformity and meanness. A 
brief consideration of some of these is necessary to the 
completion of the plan which we have proposed. 

The order in which these emotions arise is probably the 
following. We first become conscious of the emotion of 
boauty from the contemplation of material objects. Colors 
and sounds first delight us ; then form and motion. But, 
as our minds assume a subjective tendency, we think of 
the actions, the motives, the governing principles, and char- 
acters of men. We find that some of these awaken in ua 
an emotion exceedingly analogous to that of which we were 
conscious when we observed the beautiful and sublime in 
external nature. We give to both classes of emotion tho 
iame name, and designate the objects which awaken them 



404 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 

by the same epithet. Thus, we speak of a beautiful flower, 
and of a beautiful sentiment, of a sublime scene and a sub- 
lime action, employing the same term to designate the aes- 
thetic quality in the object, whether it be material or imma- 
terial. 

It may, however, be well to observe, in passing, that the 
emotion of taste, when we contemplate a moral action, is 
different from the moral emotion. In the latter case, we 
look upon it as right or wrong ; as fulfilling or violating 
obligation ; as a matter for moral approbation or disappro- 
bation, and as involving consequences greater than we can 
adequately conceive. In this case, we merely contemplate 
its aesthetic quality, as something which excites within us 
the emotion of the beautiful or sublime, without any consid- 
eration of its merit or demerit, or any view of its conse- 
quences either here or hereafter. Hence it is that there are 
many more admirers of goodness than good men. A pro- 
fane and impious poet may discourse eloquently on the 
character of a holy God, as Rousseau paid a striking tribute 
to the moral sublimity of the death of the Redeemer. 

I proceed to mention a few examples of immaterial qual- 
ities which seem to possess remarkable aesthetic power. 

Unusual power of intellect, successfully displayed, pre- 
Bents an object singularly pleasing to the taste. Newton, in 
his study, arriving at the result of his labors, and over- 
whelmed with the consciousness that he had revealed to 
mankind the mechanism of the universe ; Milton, in pov- 
erty and blindness, working out his immortal epic ; Gibbon, 
seated on the ruins of the Coliseum, resolving to develop 
the cause of the decline and fall of the Roman empire, — 
are illustrations of this form of sublimity. 

High intelligence, leading to important and self-reliant 
action, presents a still more impressive object of the spirit- 
ually sublime. A general, on the eve of a great battle. 



IMMATERIAL OBJECTS Oi TASTE. 405 

prepared for a contest on which vast \ssues depend, as Na- 
{>oleon at thg battle of the Pyramids ; Columbus meditating 
the discovery of America, and fully resolved to demote hia 
life to the search for an unknown w T orld ; Clarkson resolv- 
ing to lay aside every other object, and live thereafter only 
for the abolition of the African slave-trade, — may all tc 
cited as instances of this kind. 

The social and domestic affections, when conspicuously 
displayed, furnish many illustrations of beauty and sublim- 
ity. The affection of the parent for his prodigal son, in 
the inimitable parable of our Lord ; the Roman daughter 
nourishing from her own breast her father who waa 
condemned to die by starvation ; the lament of David over 
Saul and Jonathan, and his bitter wailing over his son Ab- 
salom ; the parting of Paul from the elders at Miletus, — ■ 
are all illustrations of the power of affection to create the 
emotion of the beautiful, and they have been frequently 
used for this purpose by poets and artists. 

Still more impressive are the exhibitions of high moral 
excellence. 

The noble bearing of the three Hebrews, when threatened 
with instant death unless they would worship the golden 
image of the king of Babylon, is a fine illustration of the 
morally sublime. " 0, Nebuchadnezzar, w 7 e are not care- 
ful to answer thee in this matter. If it be so, our God 
whom we serve is able to deliver us, and he will deliver ua 
out of thy hand, king ! But if not, be it known unto 
thee, 0, king, that we will not serve thy Gods, nor wor- 
ship the golden image which thou hast set up." 

The description by Horace of a man of steadfast purpose 
tni incorruptible integrity, has for ages called fonb tht 
admiration of scholars : 

•• Justum et tenacem propositi virum 
Non civium ardor prava jubeutium. 



406 1NTELL£ :tual philosophy. 

Non vultus instantis tyranni, 
Mente qua,tit solida, neque Auster, 
Dux inquieti turbid us Hadriae. 
Nee fulminantis magna manus Jovis. 
Si fractus illabatur orbis, 
Impavidum ferient ruinae." 

Lib. 3. Carmen 3. 1-8. 

An act of supposed patriotism is thus celebrated by 
AJwnstfe : 

" Look then abroad through nature, to the range 
Of suns and stars and adamantine spheres, 
Wheeling unshaken through the void immense, 
And speak, man ! does this capacious scene 
With half that kindred majesty dilate, 
Thy strong conception, as when Brutus rose 
Refulgent from the stroke of Cjesar's fate, 
Amid the crowd of patriots, and his arm 
Aloft extending, like Eternal Jov^ 
When guilt brings down the thunder, called aloud 
On Tully's name, and shook his cr.mson steel, 
And bade the father of his country hail ! 
For lo ! the tyrant prostrate in the aust, 
And Rome is free again." 

1 adduce this passage without any sympathy with its 
ethical sentiments, and merely as an example of the power 
of supposed patriotism to awaken emotion. It is a con- 
spicuous instance of the power of love of country to 
ennoble, for the moment, assassination itself. How different 
is the type of moral sublimity revealed to us in the New 
Testament ! For example, I need only refer to the dying 
prayer of Jesus, " Father, forgive them, for they know not 
what they do ! " The reply of our Lord to the soldier who 
sjmote him has always seemed to me eminently sublime : 
*'If I have done evil, bear witness of the evil; but if 
well, why smitest thou me ? " 

The effect produced upon us either by material qualities 
or immaterial energies is greatly increased by contrast. A 
large object seems larger, and a small object smaller, when 



IMMATERIAL OBJECTS OF TASTE. 407 

placed in juxtaposition. A beautiful form appears m >ra 
beautiful by contrast with deformity. Lofty disinterest' *1- 
ness is more sublime when opposed to meanness, and bravery 
when contrasted with pusillanimity. Of this principle Lr- 
ti3ts of every profession, wherever it is possible, avail th< m- 
Belves. We thus see youth and old age introduced into the 
seme group, in an historical painting, wildness and cultiva- 
tion into the same landscape. So, in romance and trage ly, 
characters of the most opposite elements are brought iuto 
contact, to deepen the impression produced by both. TLus > 
Brutus and Cassius, Othello and Iago, Duncan and Macb( th ; 
add greatly to the impression of each other. Instances of 
the same kind may be given without number. 

It is universally observed that the external indicationr of 
the benevolent affections, or of those which we recognia 3 aa 
beautiful, are themselves beautiful ; while those which in- 
dicate the malevolent affections are displeasing. Hence, we 
frequently meet a person whose countenance, without a single 
beautiful feature, is remarkably agreeable, simply by reason 
of the expression. In other cases, when the features them- 
selves are beautiful, they fail to impress us favorably, be- 
cause they are disfigured by the indications of meanness, 
eelfishness, passion, or treachery. Hence it is that mora) 
and intellectual cultivation have so powerful an effect in im- 
proving the human countenance. It is only when the ma- 
terial and spiritual elements are united, that we observe the 
highest style of human beauty. We can thus readily dis- 
tinguish the works of a first-rate artist. A sculptor or a 
painter may be able to delineate a form of faultless propor- 
tions, and yet only attain to mediocrity in his profession. 
He who to skill in delineation adds the power of expressing 
the indications of intellectual and moral character, is alona 
destined to the immortality which the arts of design can 
confer. It is one thing to copy a model, and is a very dif- 



408 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 

ferent thing to form a conception of character, and, then, t« 
represent it in marble, or on canvas, so that we reproduce the 
same conception in the mind of every beholder. 

Some of the innocent and painful emotions, as sorrow, 
grief, regret, disappointment, may be agreeable objects of 
taste, in their external manifestations. Here, however, a 
cautious line of discrimination must be observed. As soon 
as emotions become intense, they cease to be pleasant to the 
beholder. Thus, the external indication of sadness may 
render a beautiful countenance more attractive ; but the 
distortion produced by convulsive grief is unpleasant. 
Hence, he who is overwhelmed by calamity, and is obliged 
to give utterance to his emotion in sobs and weeping, covers 
his face, or retires from the view of others. The same re- 
mark, in fact, applies to all the emotions. A smile may be 
pleasing in an historical picture, but a broad grin, or wide- 
mouthed laughter, would be intolerable. In reference to 
this subject, Dr. Moore, in his ' ' View of Society and Man- 
ners in Italy," objects to the conception of the celebrated 
group of Laocoon. He affirms that the physical agony 
expressed in the contortion of the features and limbs of the 
parent and children, as they writhe within the folds of the 
serpents, is too intense to be contemplated without positive 
pain, and that, therefore, the effect of the group is distress- 
ing and, of course, unpleasant. The artist has exhibited 
his conception with admirable skill ; the fault is in the con- 
ception itself. 



SECTION IV — THE EMOTION OF TASTE ; OR TASTE CON- 
SIDERED SUBJECTIVELY. 

The emotion of taste, or that state of mind of which we 
ire conscious when we contemplate any object of unusual 



TASTE CONSIDERED SUBJECTIVELY. 409 

■esthetic power, is exceedingly simple. Every one knows 
what it is, yet it is impossible to analyze, and difficult to de- 
scribe it. It is not connected by necessity with any result. 
Sometimes we may desire to possess the. object, as, for in- 
stance, a picture that pleases us ; but this desire is by no 
means universal. Who ever desired to own the falls of 
Niagara ? Nor does the possession of a beautiful object in- 
crease the pleasure which it gives us. The traveller through 
a beautiful country enjoys the scenery around him just as 
much as if it were his own. 

The emotion of gratified taste is eminently pleasing. To 
be assured of this, we need only observe the sacrifices which 
men undergo to obtain it. We travel hundreds of miles, at 
great personal inconvenience, and are satisfied if, at the 
end, we can look upon a magnificent cataract, or spend a 
few days amid scenes of picturesque beauty. What mil- 
lions have been attracted to Italy to survey the creations of 
art which adorn the crumbling tomb of that " lone mother 
of dead empires ! " And, if we look upon the world around 
us, we shall be surprised at the vastness of the expense in- 
curred in the gratification of taste. We do not spend much 
on mere specimens of art. but when anything is demanded 
by utility, we are willing to treble the cost, if it also gratifies 
our love for the beautiful. 

The emotion of taste, like the objects which excite it, 
is of a twofold character — that produced by the beautiful, 
and that by the sublime. The distinction easily unfolds 
itself to our consciousness. Every one knows that the 
emotion produced by a parterre of flowers, a jet d'eau, is un- 
like that produced by the sight of the ocean in a storm, a 
magnificent mountain, the Parthenon of Athens, or the 
pyramids of Egypt. Both are emotions of taste. Both 
are eminently sources of pleasure. The character of the 
©ne may, however, be readily distinguish 3d from the other. 
35 



€10 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 

No sharp line of discrimination can, however, be drawn 
between the classes of objects which give rise to these dif- 
ferent emotions. In many cases, they insensibly blend with 
each other. A river at its commencement, and for a por- 
tion of its course, is simply beautiful. When it pours itself 
into the ocean, like the Mississippi or Amazon, it becomes 
an object of sublimity. It may be, however, impossible to 
designate the point at which one quality ends, and the other 
begins. The same is true of immaterial qualities. An act 
of kindness, compassion, or gratitude, is generally beauti- 
ful, while a conspicuous act of justice is sublime. These, 
however, may be reversed. A trifling or graceful act of 
justice may be beautiful ; an act of godlike compassion, aa 
the death on the cross, is passing sublime. 

We may observe a difference in the character of these 
emotions, and in the sentiments with which they harmonize. 
The emotion of beauty is calm, moderately exhilarating, at- 
tractive, and harmonizes with all the bland and social affec- 
tions, whether grave or gay. The emotion of the sublime 
is exciting, engrossing, filling th*e mind with awe, some- 
times with terror, and associating with grave resolves and 
momentous and soul-stirring action. Thus ornament may 
increase the hilarity of a ball-room, or it may add deeper 
impressiveness to the sadness of the tomb. The sublime 
may add intensity to the emotion which impels us to heroic 
achievement, or, overpowering all our faculties, may over- 
whelm us with sudden amazement. 

The emotion of taste is commonly transient. Its object 
being to give us pleasure, the impression which it creates is 
easily effaced by collision with the sterner realities of life. 
It is, in its nature, evanescent. An object that pleases us 
to-day, will affect us less powerfully to-morrow, and, if it be 
continually in our presence, will soon cease to affect us at 
all. Persons living in the vicinity of he most magnificent 



TASTE CONSIDERED SUBJECTIVELY. 411 

scenery, view it without emotion. From this fact, the ar- 
tist finds it necessary to employ every means in his powei 
to deepen the impression which he designs to create. The 
manner in which this is done must depend upon the means 
at his disposal. The painter, in his representation, is 
limited to a single moment of time. In forming his con- 
ception, he must, therefore, arrange every circumstance of 
his picture, so that it shall on that instant conduce to the 
principal effect. In language, we are not thus limited, and 
may accomplish our result by means of repeated impres- 
sions. As, however, the mind affected bj one object would 
be less affected by another precisely similar, it becomes 
necessary to arrange every circumstance climactically, so 
that the emotion first excited may be rendered at every step 
more intense. The effect of such an arrangement is beau- 
tifully illustrated by Shakspeare in the following passage : 

" Knew ye not Pompey ? Many a time and oft 
Have ye climbed up to walls and battlements, 
To towers and windows, yea to window tops, 
Your infants in your arms, and there have sat 
The livelong day, in patient expectation, 
To see great Pompey pass the streets of Rome 
And when you saw his chariot but appear, 
Have you not made an universal shout, 
That Tiber trembled underneath his bauks, 
To hear the replication of your sounds 
Made in his concave shores ? ' ' 

Julius Cesar, Act 1, Scene 1. 



I 



For the same reason novelty adds greatly to the po*«*r 
of an aesthetic conception. The most beautiful object by 
repetition becomes incapable of moving us. Hence we are 
specially gratified with a new illustration, an unexpected 
resemblance or contrast, or any object, either of beauty or 
sublimity, which meets us for the first time. Hence tn$ 
power of a mind that looks ujca a subject by its own lights 



V 



112 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 

end discovers new relations that have escaped the obsei ration 
of others. Such writers, even with many defects, will al- 
ways please ; while he who is content to be an imitator, may 
be faultlessly correct, and inimitably proper, but he comes tfl 
us with a thrice-told tale, and leaves us wholly unaffected. 

Wit is generally mentioned as one of the objects by which 
the emotion of taste is excited. It seems to me but partially 
connected with the subject, and therefore cannot here claim 
any separate discussion. In the place of any analysis of 
its nature and effects, I shall merely quote the following 
passage from Dr. Barrow as the best description of wit and 
its modes of affecting us with which I am acquainted. 

" Sometimes it lieth in pat allusion to a known story, or 
in seasonable application of a trivial saying, or in forging 
an apposite tale : sometimes it playeth in words and phrases, 
taking advantage from the ambiguity of their sense, or the 
affinity of their sound : sometimes it is lodged in a sly ques- 
tion, in a smart answer, in a quirkish reason, in a shrewd 
intimation, in cunningly diverting or cleverly retorting an 
objection : sometimes it is concealed in a bold scheme of 
speech, in a tart irony, in a lusty hyperbole, in a startling 
metaphor, in a plausible reconciling of contradictions, or in 
acute nonsense : sometimes a scenical representation of per- 
sons or things, a counterfeit speech, a mimical look or ges- 
ture passe th for it : sometimes an affected simplicity, some- 
times a presumptuous bluntness, giveth it being : sometimes 
it riscth from a lucky hitting upon what is strange, some- 
times from a crafty wresting obvious matter to the purpose : 
often it consisteth in one knows not what, and springeth up 
one knows not how. Its ways are unaccountable and inex- 
plicable, being answerable to the rovings of fancy and the 
windings of language. It is, in short, a manner of speak- 
ing out of the plain way, which, by a pretty and surprising 
ttncouthness in conceit or expression, doth affect and amusa 



TASTE CONSIDERED SUBJECTIVELY. 413 

the fancy, stirring in it some wonder, and breeding some 
delight thereto. It raise th admiration, as signifying a nimblfl 
sagacity of apprehension, a special felicity of invention, a 
vivacity of spirit and reach of wit more than vulgar. It 
seemeth to argue a rare quickness of parts, that one can 
fetch in remote conceits applicable ; a notable skill, that he 
can dexterously accommodate them to the purpose before 
him, together with a lively briskness of humor not apt to 
dash those sportful flashes of the imagination. It also pro- 
cureth delight by gratifying curiosity with its rareness or 
semblance of difficulty (as monsters not for their beauty but 
their rarity ; as juggling tricks, not for their use but their 
abstruseness, are beheld with pleasure), by diverting the mind 
from its road of serious thoughts, by instilling gayety and 
airiness of spirit in way of emulation or complaisance ; and 
by seasoning matters, otherwise distasteful or insipid, with 
an unusual and thence grateful tang." — Sermon against 
Foolish Talking and Jesting. 

A few remarks on the improvement of taste may be 
appropriate to the close of this chapter. 

I have said above that taste is that sensibility by which 
we recognize the beauties and deformities of nature and art, 
deriving pleasure from the one, and suffering pain from the 
other. Erom this definition it is evident that the function 
of taste is two-fold ; first, it discriminates between beauty 
and deformity, and, secondly, it is a source of pleasure and 
pain. Cultivation improves it in both these respects. It 
renders us better capable of distinguishing between beauty 
and deformity in their nore delicate shades of difference; 
and, as this power of discrimination is improved, the pleas- 
ure which we derive from gratified taste becomes mora 
exquisite and enduring, and the pain which we suffer from 
deformity is, in a corresponding degree, increased. 

When we speak of the improvement of taste, the question 
35* 



414 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 

naturally arises, How may we know when our taste is in> 
proved ) The taste of men varies greatly under different 
circumstances. The taste of childhood differs from that of 
youth, and that of youth from manhood. The taste of 
savages in all ages is unlike that of civilized man. And 
amcng nations that have made the greatest progress in civil- 
ization and refinement, we find that there have been great 
diversities in this respect. The taste of Egypt was exceed- 
ingly different from that of Greece. The taste of Greece 
and Rome were by no means identical. Neither of them 
bore any resemblance to the taste of India. Or, if we draw 
nearer to the present time, the taste of the Mahommedans 
was very dissimilar to that of the Catholics of the middle 
ages. And we perceive corresponding difference at the 
present day. The taste in architecture of France, Ger- 
many, Italy, and Great Britain, is by no means identical. 
The same remarks apply to poetry and the other fine arts. - 

Hence the question has frequently arisen, Is there any 
standard of taste ? Are there any canons to which we may 
appeal when a difference of opinion exists, or by which we 
may be guided in our attempts at self-cultivation ? It may 
be worth while briefly to examine this question. 

If by a standard of taste be meant a system of arbitrary 
rules, established by reasonings or dictated by authority, to 
which all the works of art must conform, and by reference 
to which their merit must be decided, it is manifest that no 
such standard exists. Who ever established it ? By what 
course of reasonings were its principles demonstrated? Who 
was ever competent to decide for all men, at all times ; and 
to whose decisions have men ever yielded implicit submission? 
It is obvious that such a standard does not and cannot exist. 

But, if, by a standard of taste, it be meant that on a great 
rariety of questions in aesthetics there is a general agree- 
ment of mankind in all ages, and among all nations, of the 



IMPROVEMENT OF TASTE. 415 

Kime or of similar degrees of culture, and that th p agree ■ 
ment having been observed, many general laws may be 
deduced from it by which the artist may be safely governed, 
and by which we may all test tke accuracy of our individual 
decisions, then we must answer this question in the affirma- 
tive. No one will doubt that some forms, colors, and pro- 
portions, are more agreeable to mankind than others ; that 
some positions are graceful, and others awkward ; that some 
modes of thought and expression give us pleasure, and others 
give us pain. If mankind are made with similai faculties, 
such must be the result. Although nations may differ widely 
in their decisions at a particular time yet intercourse with 
each other and progress in civilization tend to unanimity of 
opinion even on questions upon which there existed at first 
great diversity. Thus, when Greece and Rome came into 
contact, Greece asserted her superiority over her conqueror, 
and every Roman artist and poet copied with even servile 
fidelity the models which were brought from the city of Peri- 
cles. It is the object of the artist to observe these general 
facts, not for the purpose of giving laws to nature, but of 
recording the laws which nature has herself established. 
Just so far as these laws have been discovered, they become 
the standard to which the artist must conform if he desires 
to succeed, that is, to please humanity. 

It would seem, then, that in our inquiries on this sub- 
ject we are merely determining a question of fact. We ask 
what aesthetical forms have been found universally to please 
mankind, or rather that portion of mankind whose circum- 
stances have been favorable to a correct decision l When 
this question has been answered, we are to receive it as an 
ultimate fact. That which human nature pronounces to be 
beautiful is beautiful to man, and that which it pronounces 
deformed is deformed. We may. it is true, with advantage 
frequently analyze a complicated decision, h order to deter- 



416 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 

mine with more accuracy the particular elements on which 
it is founded, and thus arrive at a simpler and more genera? 
law. Thus, the voice of mankind has pronounced the epic 
of Homer to be beautiful. This decision cannot be ques- 
tioned. We may, however, examine it, to determine the 
qualities on which this decision is founded. There is the 
general plot, the delineation of character, the description of 
events, the vivacity of dramatic action, the language and 
rhythmical power, the machinery or intervention of the 
gods, the quarrels of the chiefs, the catalogue of the ships, 
the lists of the slain, the slaughtering of animals, and the 
culinary arrangements of the chiefs. We may certainly 
analyze this complex variety of elements, and determine 
which is essential and which injurious to the general effect. 
In this manner we are enabled to ascertain what it is that 
pleases mankind, and thus form a more definite idea of the 
standard of poetic excellence. 

Our labor here, however, consists mainly in analysis. 
We may examine separately the various elements of success 
or failure, but we cannot reason from them with any decided 
confidence. Because a particular form is beautiful in one 
position, we cannot determine that it will please under all 
circumstances. Because a particular combination of form 
is beautiful, we cannot determine what will be the effect of 
an entirely opposite combination. An artist of originality 
may repose a reasonable confidence in his own sensibilities, 
but he can never be sure that a conception will please, until 
he has submitted it to the judgment of mankind. 

Writers on this subject, of distinguished ability, have con- 
tended that there is no established relation between the 
numan sensibility and the external world, by which we are 
entitled to say that anything is in itself beautiful. They 
affirm that our idea :>f beauty is merely derived from asso- 
tiation. In reply to this assertion, it may be remarked that 



IMPROVEMENT OF TASTE. 417 , 

our own consciousness testifies clearly to the character of the 
emotion of taste. It may clearly be distinguished from 
every other emotion, and also from every act of the imagi- 
nation, the reason, or any of our other faculties. It differs 
from them all in its nature, its origin, and its results. If, 
then, it be an original and peculiar affection of the mind, 
its existence need not and cannot be accounted for by asso- 
ciation. As Mr. Stewart very appositely remarks : " The 
theory which resolves the whole effect of the beautiful into 
association, must necessarily involve that species of paralo- 
gism to which logicians have given the name of reasoning 
in a circle. It is the province of association to impart to 
one thing the agreeable or disagreeable effect of another ; 

O CD © ' 

but association can never account for the origin of a class 
of pleasures different in kind from all the others we know. 
If there was nothing originally pleasing or beautiful, the asso- 
ciating principle would have no material on which to operate. " 

As to the manner in which this faculty may be improved, 
but little can be said in addition to what was remarked when 
treating of the imagination. Both faculties are employed 
upon the same objects, and the mode of cultivation is in 
most respects the same. A few brief suggestions are all that 
I shall here offer. 

It is universally admitted that all the forms of nature 
possess some portion of aesthetic power. As we become 
familiar with these, and hold communion with nature in all 
her aspects, whether grave or gay, beautiful or sublime, we 
cultivate our aesthetic sensibility, we more readily recognize 
the beautiful, and rejoice in it with more exquisite emotions. 

We shall also derive great benefit from studying with 
care classical productions in the various departments of the 
fine arts. When an artist has been eminently successful, he 
has united in one conception all the elements of the beauti- 
ful within his power, excluding from it all that could «lifc« 



418 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 

tract the attention or diminish the effect. Bence, if wa 
comprehend his design, understand his mode of developing 
it, and meditate upon his work, until we sympathize with 
his sentiments and share in his enthusiasm, our taste will 
become in some measure assimilated to his. He who haa 
caught the inspiration of Raphael must possess already the 
spiritual element of a painter ; and he who can feel the 
Bentiments which inspired Milton and Shakspeare, must be 
endowed with some portion at least of poetic genius. 

If, however, we desire to improve our taste, we must do 
it not by the indiscriminate study of models, but only by 
the contemplation of the most eminent. We must confine 
ourselves to the most faultless models if we would cultivate 
our love for the beautiful. If the student would form a 
classical style, and acquire a discriminating love for literary 
excellence, he must limit his reading to the works of those 
whom the suffrages of humanity have numbered among the 
masters of thought and expression. A vast amount of mis- 
cellaneous reading may enable us to abound in small knowl- 
edge and flippant criticism. It is only by communion with 
those whose works " the world will not willingly let die," 
that we learn to emulate their intellectual achievements, and 
become the instructors of our fellow-men. 

In studying the works of others for our own improve- 
ment, one caution is however to be observed. They are the 
productions of fallible men like ourselves. We are. there- 
fore, to bring to the examination of every work of art, the 
exercise of a calm, discriminating judgment, prepared to 
distinguish beauty from deformity wherever they exist. We 
must exercise our own taste, if we would cultivate our sen- 
sitive nature. When we study the works of others to 
awaken our own sensibilities, to correct our errors, and to 
arouse ourselves to emulation, we develop our own faculties. 
But, if we study only to bow before a master as we wouhj 



IMPROVEMENT OF TASTE. 419 

tKx*L5£ cur Creator, we become servile copyists and de- 
graded idolaters. It is not impossible that our veneration 
for the ancients has in some degree produced this effect 
upon modern literature. I have always been struck with 
the remark of one of the Italian masters, who, when a work 
of an earlier artist was spoken of with servile adoration, 
turned away and said, "I too am a painter." To study 
the works of others that we may be able to equal them, cul- 
tivates the power of original creation. To study them only 
that we may learn how to do feebly, what they have done 
well, is fatal to all manly development, and must consign 
an individual or an age tc the position of despairing and 
wondering mediocrity. 



APPENDIX. 



Note to pages 101, 102. 

It is stated in the text that, under certain abnormal circumstances, w% 
become capable of perceptions, or cognitions, without the aid of the e'guns 
of sense. While I was lecturing on this subject, a few years since, one of 
my pupils informed me of some facts, of a very decided character, in pos- 
session of his brother, J. M. Brooke, Esq., of the United States Navy. At 
my request he wrote to his brother, stating my wish for information. Mr. 
Brooke soon after very kindly wrote to me as follows ■ 

Washington, Oct. 27, 1851. 

Sir : It affords me pleasure to comply with your request, made through 
my brother William, relative to some experiments performed on board of 
the D. S. 3teamer Princeton, in the latter part of the year 1847 ; she being 
then on a cruise in the Mediterranean. Nathaniel Bishop, the subject of 
the experiments, was a mulatto, about twenty-six years of age, in good 
health, but of an excitable disposition. The first experiment was of the 
magnetic or mesmeric sleep, which overpowered him in thirty minutes* 
from the commencement of passes made in the ordinary way, accompanied 
with a steadfast gaze and effort of will that he should sleep. 

In this state he was insensible to all voices but mine, unless I directed 
or willed him to hear others ; he was also insensible to such amount of 
pain as one might inflict without injury, that is, what would have been 
pain to another. He would obey my directions to whistle, dance, or sing. 
When aroused from this sleep he had no recollection of what occurred 
while in it. That such an influence could be exerted I was already aware, 
having previously witnessed satisfactory experiments. Of clairvoyance I 
had never been convinced ; indeed, considered it nothing more than a sort 
of dreaming produced by the will of the operator. I became aware of its 
truth rather through accident than design. 

It happened one day that some one of my brother officers asked a ques- 
tion which the others could not answer. Bishop, who had been a few 
moments before in a mesmeric sleep, gave the desired information, speak- 
ing with confidence and apparent accuracy. As the information related to 
something which it seemed almost impossible to know without seeing, we 
were very much surprised. It struck me that he might be olairvbyant ; 
and I at once asked him to tell me the time by a watch kept in the binna- 
cle, on the spar or upper deck, we being on the berth or lower deck. Ha 
answered correctly, as I found upon looking at the watch, allowing eigbJ 
36 



422 APPENDIX. 



or nine seconds for time occupied in getting on deck. I then asked hii 
many questions with regard to objects at a distance, which he answered 
and, as far as I could ascertain, correctly. 

For example, one evening, while at anchor in the port of Genoa, th« 
captain was on shore. I asked Bishop, in the presence of several officers, 
where the captain then was. He replied, " At the opera with Mr. Lester, 
the consul." "What does he say ? " I inquired. Bishop appeared to 
listen, and in a moment replied, ** The captain tells Mr. Lester that he waa 
much pleased with the port of Xavia ; that the authorities treated him 
vrith much consideration." 

Upon this, one of the officers laughed, and said that when the captain 
returned he would ask him. He did so ; saying, " Captain, we have been 
listening to your conversation on shore." "Very well," remarked the 
captain. " What did I say ? " expecting some jest. The officer then re- 
peated what the captain had said of Xavia and its authorities. " Ah," 
gaii the captain, " who was at the opera ? I did not see any of tha 
officers there." The lieutenant then explained the matter. The captain 
confirmed its truth, and seemed very much surprised, as there had been 
no other communication with the shore during the evening. I may 
remark that we had touched at several ports between Xavia and Genoa. 

On another occasion, an officer being on shore, I directed Bishop to 
examine his pockets ; he made several motions with his hands, as if 
actually drawing something from the officer's pockets, saying, " Here is a 
handkerchief, and here a box — what a curious thing ! — full of little white 
sticks with blue ends. What are they, Mr. Brooke? " I replied, "Per- 
haps they are matches." "So they are!" he exclaimed. My com- 
panions, expecting the officer mentioned, went on deck, and meeting him 
at the gangway, asked, "What have you in your pockets?" '* Noth- 
ing," he replied. " But have you not a box of matches ? " " 0, yes ! " 
said he. " How did you know it ? I bought them just before I came on 
board." The matches were peculiar, made of white wax with blue ends. 

The surgeons of the Princeton ridiculed these experiments, upon which 
I requested one of them (Farquh arson), to test for himself, which he con- 
sented to do. With some care he placed Bishop and myself in one corner 
of the apartment, and then took a position some ten feet distant, conceal- 
ing between his hands a watch, the long second-hand of which traversed 
the dial. He first asked for a description of the watch. To which Bishop 
replied, " 'Tis a funny watch, the second-hand jumps." 

The doctor then asked him to tell the minute and second, which he did ; 
directly afterwards exclaiming, " The second-hand has stopped ! " which 
was the case, Dr. F. having stopped it. " Well," said the doctor, ** to 
what second does it point, and to what hour ; and what minute is it now ? " 
Bishop answered correctly, adding, " 'T is going again." He then told 
twice in succession the minute and second. 

The doctor was convinced, saying that it was contrary to reason, but 
ke must believe. I then proposed that the doctor should mark time ; and 
directed Bishop to look in his mother's house in Lancaster Pa. (where he 
had never been), for a clock ; he said there was one there, and told the 
time by it ; one of the officers calculated the difference in time for the 
longitudes of Lancaster and Genoa, and the clock was found to agree 
within five minutes of thf: watch time. 

Several persons being still unconvinced, I proposed that the captai* 
thould select a letter from the files in his cabin and put it on the cabin 
Ubl« ; and that Bishop should read it without leaving an apartment on 



APPENDIZ. 423 



the decs below the cabin, and some distance forward of it. Upon th'13 the 
eaptain sent for me, and telling me that all the discipline in the service 
would be destroyed, ordered me to discontinue the practice. As Bishop 
retained his power of clairvoyance, I often amused myself in sending hira 
to the United States, and, although I cannot assert that he always told the 
truth, I believe that in many instances he did so, as I have surprised per- 
sons when relating to them for confirmation such experiments in clair- 
voyance as concerned actions unknown, as they supposed, to any one but 
themselves. 

As it was in my power to control Bishop in his wanderings, I usually 
limited his powers of observation, and meddled only so far in the attain 
of my neighbors as might be honorable. 

The power which I acquired by putting him to sleep remained after h 9 
woke, and was increased by its exercise. If not exerted for several da} 3 
it decreased, sometimes rendering it necessary to repeat the passes an i 
again put him to sleep. While awake and under my influence, I made 
many experiments, such as arresting his arm when raising food to hia 
mouth, or fixing him motionless in the attitude of drinking. On one 
occasion I willed that he should continue pouring tea into a cup already 
full, which he did, notwithstanding the exclamations of those who were 
scalded in the operation. These influences were exerted without a wci\l 
or change of position on my part. He remembered or forgot what he sa .? 
when clairvoyant, as I willed, of which I satisfied myself by experiment. 

All his senses were under control, so completely, indeed, that had \ 
willed him to stop breathing I believe that he would. You may wish 'o 
know something more with regard to my experience ; if so, I shall be 
happy to inform you. I am, sir, respectfully, 

Your obedient servant, 

J. M. Brookjc. 

Db. Wayland. 

Providence. R. I 



Note to page 115. 



When treating on the subject of consciousness, 1 have referred tc tin 
feet of double consciousness, and alluded to two or three cases which have 
been published. Within a few days, a case has been brought to my notice 
by my former pupil, S. P. Bates, Esq., of Meadville, Penn., which haa 
seemed to me more remarkable than any that I have met with elsewhere. 
Mr. Bates, at my request, procured me a narrative, written by the patient 
herself. I give it in her own words, omitting only such passages as aid 
nothing to the intrinsic value of the relation. The extracts are from a 
letter addressed to her nephew, Rev. John V. Reynolds : 

My bear Nephew : I will now endeavor to give you a brief account of 
myself. When at the age of eighteen or twenty, I was occasionally atflicted 
with fits. In the spring of 1811, I had a very severe one. My frame was 
greatly convulsed, and I was extremely ill \)T several lays. My Bight and 
tolling were totally lust, and, during twelve w.-eks from the time of the 
ft mentioned, T eoutumei in a very feeble state. But, at the cud of five 



424 APPENDIX. 



weeks, the senses cf sight a>«d hearing were again restored. B\jt a mire 
remarkable visitation of Providence awaited me. A little before the ex- 
piration of the twelve weeks, one morning, when I awoke, I had lost all 
recollection of everything. My understanding with an imperfect knowl 
edge of speech remained ; but my father, mother, brothers and sisters. 
and the neighbors, were altogether strangers to me. I had no disposition 
to converse either with my friends or with strangers. I had forgotten tha 
use of written language, and did not know a single letter of the alphabet, 
nor how to discharge the duties of my domestic employment, more than -a 
new-born babe. I presently, however, began to learn various kinds of 
knowledge. 

I continued five weeks in this way, when I suddenly passed from thia 
Becond state (as, for distinction, it may be called), into my first state. 
All consciousness of the five weeks just eiapsed was totally gone, and my 
original consciousness was fully restored. My kindred and friends were 
at once recognized. Every kind of knowledge which I had ever acquired 
was as much at my command as at any former period of my life ; but of 
the time, and of all events, which had transpired during my second state, 
I had not the most distant idea. For three weeks I continued in my first 
etate. But in my sleep the transition was renewed, and I awoke in my 
second state. As before, so now, all knowledge acquired in my first 
Btate was forgotten, and of the circumstances of the three weeks' lucid 
interval, I had no conception. Of the small fund of knowledge I had 
gained in my former second state I was able to avail myself, and I con- 
tinued from day to day to add to this little treasure. 

From the spring of 1811, till within eight or ten years ago, I continued 
frequently changing from my first to second, and from my second to first 
Btate. More than three quarters of the time I was in the second state. 
Thei'e never was any periodical regularity as to the transitions. Some- 
times I continued several months, and sometimes a few weeks, a few days, 
or only a few hours, in my second state ; but in the lapse of five years I, 
in no one instance, continued more than twenty days in my first state. 

Whatever knowledge I acquired at any time in my second state became 
familiar to me when in that state, and I made such proficiency, that I soon 
became as well acquainted with things, and was in general as intelligent 
in my second as in my first state. I went through the usual process of 
learning to write, and took as much satisfaction in the use of books as in 
my first state. Your father undertook to retcach me chirography. He 
gave me my name, which he had written, to copy. I took my pen, though 
in a very awkward manner, and actually began from the right to the left 
in the Hebrew mode. It was not long before I obtained tolerable skill in 
penmanship, and often amused myself in writing poetry. I acquired all 
kinds of knowledge in my second state, with much greater facility than a 
person who had never been instructed. 

In my second state I was introduced to many persons whom I always 
recognized in that state (and no one enjoyed the society of friends better 
than I did), but if ever so well known to me, in my first state, I had no 
knowledge of them in the second, until an acquaintance had been again 
formed. In like manner all acquaintances formed in the second state, 
must be formed in the first in order to be known in that. 

These transitions always took place in my sleep. In passing from my 
jecond to my first state, nothing was particularly noticeable in my sleep 
But in passing from my first to second state, my sleep was so profonnl 
Ihat no one could awaken me, and it not unfrequently continued eighteoa 



APPENDIX. 423 



or twenty hours. had generally some presentiment Df the change fof 
leveral days before the evt.it. 

My Bufferings, in the Dear prospect of the transition from either the one of 
the other state, weie extreme, particularly from the first to the second state 
When about to undergo the change I was harassed with tear lest I should 
never revert so as to know again in this world those who were dear to mt 
My feelings in this respect were not unlike those of one who was about to 
be separated by death, though, in the second state, I did not anticipate the 
change with such distressing apprehensions as in the first. I was natu- 
rally cheerful, but more so in this than in my natural state. I believe I 
felt perfectly free from trouble when in my second state, and, for some 
time after I had been in that state, my feelings were such that, had all my 
friends been lying dead around me, I do not think it would have given me 
one moment's pain of mind. At that time my feelings were never moved 
with the manifestation of joy or sorrow. I had no idea of the past or the 
future. Nothing but the present occupied my mind. In the first stage 
of the disease, I had no idea of employing my time in anything thot wad 
useful. I did nothing but ramble about, and never tired walking about 
the fields. My mother, one day, thought she would try to rouse me a 
little. She told me that Paul says those who would not work, must not 
eat. I told her it made no matter of difference to me what Paul said, 1 
was not going to work for Paul or any other person. I did not know whG 
Paul was then. I had no knowledge of the Bible at that time. 

As an evidence of my ignorance of any kind of danger in that early 
period, before I had attained any information of right or wrong, danger 
or safety, as I was, one afternoon, walking a short distance from the house, 
I discovered, as I thought, a beautiful creature. Insensible of danger, I 
ran to it, and, in attempting to take hold of it, it eluded my grasp by 
running under a pile of logs. It was a rattlesnake. I had my hand upon 
the rattle ; but fortunately my foot slipped and I fell back. I heard it 
rattle, and was still very unwilling 10 go home without it. I put my arm 
a considerable distance under the log where the snake had crept. 

It may be remarked that whenever I changed into my natural state, I 
always felt very much debilitated. When in my second state I had no 
inclination for either food or sleep. My strength at such times was en- 
tirely artificial. I generally bad a flush in one cheek, and continual 
thirst, which denoted inward fever. 

When I was last down at home I was reading some letters which I had 
received from dear friends with whom I had corresponded previous t<? 
these changes, and who had been the companions of my younger days ; 
but their images are now entirely erased from my memory. It would be 
a source of gratification to me if I were in possession of my former recol- 
lection. 

****** 

In the early period of my disease I used to talk in my sleep, and tfll 
my plans. Sometimes my friends would overhear me, which would cause 
them to watch my movements, and by that means I have been saved 
many unpleasant trips in my sleep. Mary Reynold*. 

Note 1. Miss Reynolds could pronounce a word after any ore, bat 
Oould at first make no use of it herself. 

Note 2. The band-writing of Miss Reynolds in her second state wm M 
iitt'erent from her hand-writing in the first as that of two individual! 
36* 



426 APPENDIX. 



Note 3. At about forty years of age these changes ceased, and she lived 
on to the end of lite in her second state. She would, of course, have no 
remembrance of her life previous to these changes. During the last part 
of her life Miss Reynolds taught school, and proved a very successfu. 
teacher. 

In addition to the above Mr. Bates has obligingly procured for me th« 
following memoranda from Rev. Mr. Reynolds : 

Miss Reynolds was about forty years of age when these transitions 
ceased. Until the time of her death, at the age of sixty-nine, she con- 
tinued in what she terms her second state. Hence, all the early part of 
her life was a complete blank. Her entire disregard of danger gradually 
disappeared, until there was, in this respect, nothing remarkable. Her 
two states were never in any measure blended. 

One circumstance alluded to by Miss R. is thus stated more particularly 
by her nephew. " It was her habit, immediately after going to sleep, — and 
she usually dropped asleep very soon after retiring, — to begin to recount 
aloud the duties and incidents of the preceding day. She would go through 
all that she had done during the day, in the exact order in which it had 
occurred. She would frequently stop and comment upon things that had 
occurred, and would laugh heartily when she came to anything thai 
pleased her. 

" After going through with the duties and incidents of the preceding 
day, she would then lay her plans for the day to come. When the day 
came, she would begin and perform everything as she had planned. It 
seems that she was not aware of having formed any previous plan of 
action, as she frequently used to wonder how her friends could divine 
what she was going to do during the day, as she found that they evidently 
could do. This habit was of much service to her friends, as it enabled 
them to foresee and prevent her from doing many acts of mischief. This 
habit continued for more than a year." 

Miss Reynolds, as I have mentioned, continued for nearly thirty years 
of her life in the second state. " She, however, ceased to manifest any of 
those symptoms bordering on insanity which she exhibited during its first 
periods. She taught school for several years, united with the church, was 
a consistent Christian, and performed all the duties of life in a way which 
exhibited nothing else than a perfectly rational state. No person would 
have discovered anything unusual in her manners and conversation, 
l'here «ras, perhaps, always rather an excessive measure of nervaus exoit& 
bility. that is, an excess above the average." 



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